We Belong II: In America
by mj2007
Summary: Continuation of We Belong. George Weasley and nephew Alfred are sent into hiding while friends and family attempt to cure Alf's condition and run a fiendish plot to earth. But how will George handle living as a Muggle?
1. Ch 1 August, 2008, I

Author's note: This story is a continuation of my earlier story, WE BELONG. I strongly recommend you read that first, in order to understand what follows. In brief: George reunites with a son of Fred's that he never knew existed, Alf. For reasons explained in WE BELONG, George is now faced with having to go into hiding with Alf while friends work on finding a cure and running a devious plot to earth.

I still don't own any of the Harry Potter characters, although I have added a few of my own.

WWWWWWWW

"How do I look?" George Weasley asked Harry, nervously.

Harry grinned at him. "Purely muggle, my friend."

George gave him a wry smile and turned back to the mirror.

Well, it wasn't like they never wore muggle clothes…thank God that Hogwarts had relaxed dress codes to allow them under robes by the time he got there. Of course, usually his muggle-style attire had a distinctly wizard flair…dragon-hide jackets and boots, goblin-weave shirts that were as light as air. These were all gone now; with Hermione's help, George was, he had been assured, the very essence of muggle expectations of a slightly eccentric English writer in mourning. Trousers of a nubby material she called corduroy in a light brown, slightly slouchy; topped by a worn cotton oxford in cream, also a tad larger than he would have bought himself.

"No sense of style, I see." He sighed. He and Fred had always prided themselves on how they dressed, even when their family's financial resources had been thin. Although they'd have died before they'd have admitted it, they didn't consider themselves the most gifted looks wise. Bill had girls swooning at his feet since they could remember; Charlie, though stockier and swarthier than any of them, had a swagger and, frankly, a build that set females crazy. He and Fred had privately considered themselves plain; tall and reedy, pale and with just a spattering of freckles, they had created their own style to compensate for what was obviously nature's lack of kindness.

Looking in the mirror now, he didn't FEEL like George Weasley. Which he guessed was the point. "I can see I won't be dating much in Salem." He murmured.

Harry clapped his shoulder. "We'll be flooing you to their headquarters in about an hour, where they'll send you over with muggle movers and your necessities. By the way…your ear was the result of a fire when you were young. You don't remember anything about it."

"Convenient." He grumbled, turning to look about the room to count the…what had Hermione called them? Suitcases?...and make sure they were all there.

Harry turned to leave him for a moment, although he paused at the door. "Don't forget that sport coat…they're having a nippy spell at the moment and since you'll be arriving in the early morning, you'll be needing it."

George scowled at the offending object as his brother-in-law left; damned thing was also corduroy, a slightly darker shade than the trousers, with PATCHED elbows. He pulled it on and grimaced. "I look like ruddy Remus Lupin!" He moaned. The look had somehow suited Remus; HE felt stupid, like he was masquerading as somebody a good deal brainier. Frowning, he tugged at the sleeves, which were clearly too short.

"Oi, George!" Bill called from downstairs. "Mum's come to see you off!"

Thank heavens, he was afraid he wouldn't get to see her! And then a resolute grin split his face. "Sorry, Hermione." He muttered to nobody. Grabbing his wand, he threw open the window, and concentrated all his thoughts and might into a drawer back at his little flat over the shop. "Accio sweater!" He yelled.

It was three precious minutes before a blur appeared on the horizon; then through the window and into his hand landed a luxuriously knit, heavenly warm, rich blue sweater with a gold "G" emblazoned in the center. Pulling it on, he hugged it close to himself for a second, and shared a joke with the mirror. It wasn't sexy, by any means; but by God it was HIM!

He loped down the stairs with easy grace, and turned running nearly spot on into his very worried looking Mum. Molly took one look at him…in the sweater she knit for him…and her eyes softened. "Oh, my dear BOY!" She came forward snuffling to embrace him. "You haven't worn that in years!"

Ten years, he thought. After all, he hardly needed an initial any longer. "It seemed appropriate. Besides, it's in perfectly good shape, lovely warm, and like having you with me." He said.

Hermione, standing to the ready, had grabbed her forehead in exasperation and had been clearly about to absolutely make George change, but after that statement, how could she? He winked at her over Mum's shoulder, and with pursed lips she shrugged.

Molly pulled herself together and backed away, smoothing his shirt out. "We'll firecall as often as we can, George." She said. "And you know as soon as Arthur feels it's safe, you probably won't be able to get him out of your house."

"So he's warned me." George looked over at his Dad, smiling confidently at him; Arthur came forward and clapped his shoulder. "Where's Alf?"

"Here!" The boy came around the corner, looking perfectly natural in jeans and a rugby shirt, handing him one of Fleur's rich pastries. "This will be the last time in a while we have something this good to eat, I guess."

Cooking! Oh, God…he could throw together, with magic, the basics…but a muggle kitchen? He took the breakfast offering and sighed. "Do you know how to make coffee, Alf?" He asked, sounding desperate.

"I can boil water." He replied, then laughed at him. "We'll figure it out…" he nudged him. "…Dad."

George grinned down at him, and took his hand, warmth replacing any fear he had left.

"Right, then…" Hermione moved to go with them. Let's get you settled!

George and Alf stepped forward with Hermione into the floo…he swallowed hard and met his Dad's comforting eye just before the world went green.

WWWWWWW

_Three days later…_

It stared at him. Taunting him. MOCKING him. He wanted, in the worst way, to blow it to pieces with his wand, but George Weasley was trying like hell to pass as a muggle and he wouldn't let two pounds of plastic and glass get the best of him.

But he'd done everything right, he had! He could read instructions and follow details…he'd measured everything perfectly, packaged it according to directions, and watered the damned thing. Despite professor Snape, he hadn't been a complete dunce at potions, and this wasn't such a different process.

So where the hell was his coffee?

Without a word, Alf came up next to him with a glass of juice. He slid under his arm, reached over, and flicked a funny raised button at one side. It suddenly glowed orange, the beast made a hissing sound, and within a few seconds a slow trickle of fragrant brown water flowed into the glass beaker.

"Shaddup." George muttered to a smirking Alfred.

"You're welcome." Alf replied.

It was a tidy little house they had now, and the kitchen, that which George had feared most, wasn't all that bad. The stove was functional and actually used fire to work, a substance he was familiar wish. ("Gas." Alf had corrected him, but flame was flame as far as he was concerned). The box where they kept the food had two doors, one of which actually spat out ice and cold water; the compartments they were divided into kept food at either freezing or pretty darned cold, depending on what it ought to be. Water magically poured forth from the metal spout and basin, hot or cold as you wished. George couldn't wait until his father would be able to visit…the man would be giddy with delight.

A beeping sound announced that the box they used to super-heat food was done with something; George watched Alfred reach in and pull out two bowls of what muggles called oatmeal, and what George thought of as flavored paste.

But the coffee was good…he poured himself a cup, and sat down, adding milk at the table and accepting his paste with resignation as Alf handed him the newspaper.

George sighed. "Why do you always get the sports section first?" He muttered, disheartened by the tiny print and still pictures that accompanied stories about some kind of tunnel recently built in nearby Boston, which seemed to have cost too much and be barely working.

"You're supposed to be a well traveled writer, remember? Why would you care about…" Alf made a grimace himself. "The Red Sox."

"Is that the local…er…football team?" George puzzled, leaning over to look at the section.

"They call it soccer in America." Alf informed him. "Although it's perfectly alright for you to continue to call it football, just make sure you sound a little condescending when you do. Apparently that's the proper British attitude about American soccer." Alf gave him a confidential smirk. "They have their own version of FOOTBALL here, which is mostly played throwing and carrying an oblong ball."

"That makes no sense…" George grumbled. "So which kind of football team are these Red Sox, anyway?"

"That's what gets confusing…they are a baseball team. Very big American muggle sport, originated here. From what I can gather, the Red Sox in this area are nearly akin to a religion."

"Weird!" George murmured, taking the section from Alfred and studying it carefully.

A sudden buzz made him jump, and he snapped to attention, wand out.

"That's the doorbell, DAD." Alf said. "You should probably put that away. Want me to answer it?"

He slid his wand into his back pocket, under the maroon sweater Mum had sent to him after they'd departed. "I'll open it, but you stick by, in case I stick my…what was that expression you used?"

"Foot in your mouth. Got it."

They walked together to the door; George first checking a cleverly arranged silk flower bunch by the door; they were spelled to sense ill-will, and turn from blue to red in the event of danger. The brainchild of Hermione Granger, naturally! As it was blue, he felt confident that their visitor was no danger and opened the door.

"Welcome neighbor!" A large, beefy blonde man with a heavy mustache was outside, offering his hand. George accepted cautiously, and nearly winced as the visitor crushed him. "Name's Butch O'Malley…live next door and wanted to stop by to meet you!"

"Er…thanks." George forced himself not to shake his hand out. The bloody bastard reminded him of Vernon Dursley, Harry's totally un-missed muggle Uncle. "George Weatherby…this is my son, Alfred."

"Alfred, eh?" The man gave Alf a questioning look. "Rather old fashioned name, but I guess it's you English being English, as they say, right?" He guffawed at his own joke, and George contemplated ways he might hex him if he could.

"My SON…" George said, sounding stiff. "Was named after my late brother." More or less true.

"Oh, er…quite." The man did try to look more somber but was failing. "Know you just lost your wife, too…sorry bout that. Not exactly a sensitive guy, eh, Mikey!"

For the first time George noticed a boy about Alf's age, solidly built with light brown hair and freckles. He seemed to shrink from his father's rather robust performance, which was understandable, as the man was rather…well…obnoxious. George resolved to remain polite, if only because he'd like Alfred to have at least one mate in the neighborhood before school started next week. He smiled at the boy. "And how old are you, Mike?" He asked.

"Oh, he's ten, bout the same age as yours, Realtor told me." Butch continued on, making George wondered if the kid had ever even learned how to speak, living in the house with this man. "But let me come to the point, eh? You are ENGLISH, right?"

"Clearly." George decided to be mostly amused, with just a hint of irritation.

"Excellent…I assume the boy plays, does he?" The man went on.

George looked down at Alfred, not sure exactly what to answer, and Alf spoke up. "I play football, or Soccer, I guess, Mr. O'Malley." He kept his voice polite and measured.

"Amazing!" The man put his arms behind his back and thumped out his chest. "Well, it just so happens that I am the coach of the town's youth soccer team…the Salem Stingers. We'd absolutely love to have Alfie here on the team. What position does he play?"

_Alfie? How revolting! And why doesn't he actually talk to Alf himself? _ "Goalie, mostly." George remembered from his early discussions with Alf when the lad had first moved in with him.

O'Malley was positively salivating now, his eyes lit with glee. It was an ugly cross of Venron Dursley and Marcus Flint, George decided. "Excellent! Our goalie from last year is out of age bracket." He made it sound like a personal failing. "And nobody's stepped up to show anything at all!" He looked down at Alf, and addressed him directly. "You are _good_, I suppose."

Alf flushed lightly. "Pretty good, I guess."

"Well, we'll see about that…but being English you've got to be better than what I have now." He rubbed at his mustache thoughtfully. "You interested in doing a spot of coaching, eh, Weatherby?"

"Uh…" George felt rather flummoxed. Clearly being English he ought to be able to coach soccer…and if it had been youth _Quidditch _ he'd be coaching he'd fall over backwards for the chance, but he didn't know a damned thing about this sport, on either continent! He looked to Alf, appealingly.

"My Dad's not really much of an athlete, Mr. O'Malley." Alf answered for him. "And he's got a heavy deadline from his publishing house."

Mikey started, and took a step back looking at George expectantly. O'Malley, as well, was rather red faced at the reply, and looked George up and down, waiting. George shrugged apologetically. "Alf's right, I'm afraid…" And then, with inspiration, he turned his head slightly so O'Malley could see his ear…or what used to be his ear. "I was in a bit of an accident as a kid, so I never got to play much."

O'Malley momentarily recoiled from him, but recovered, apparently less appalled by the hole in his head than by losing Alf as a goalie. "Well…come along to the field just at the end of the street about 3pm and we'll give you a workout, see if you're up to snuff." He rocked back on his heals for a moment. "I don't put up with any backtalk, young man!"

Alf looked slightly startled. "Of course not…Sir."

O'Malley snorted once, looked again at George like he were a fruitcake, and then backed away, Mikey trailing behind him. "Were you rude that I wasn't aware of?" George asked Alfred, as they shut the door.

"I don't think so, but I think he expected you to be pissed at me for claiming you weren't a good athlete." Alf shrugged. "Not sure I like him too well."

"Me either…but I'm glad we can get you on to a sports team anyway." George figured that getting involved with local teams would keep Alf's mind on normal ten year old things, and not the fact that there was a contract out on his life and he was waiting for a potion to cure a problem that could prevent him from living the life he should be able to live. He paused as they walked back in to breakfast. "Blimey, Alf, the Salem ministry is popping by today with some documents I need, right when O'Malley wants you to practice."

"Oh." Alf walked over to the back door, and pointed. "You can see the field right there…would it be a problem if I went by myself?" He looked pleadingly at George.

There was a war inside of himself…he wanted Alf to desperately fit in, and he got the feeling that most kids in this neighborhood didn't have a Dad attached to them everywhere. Still, he had to keep him safe. George chewed his lower lip, and then pulled two galleons out of his pocket, along with his wand. With a few whispered spells, he handed one to Alf after conjuring up a chain for it, pocketing the other. "If you are in any danger, this will warn me." George said. "If anybody gives you grief about wearing a necklace, tell them it was your mother's, that should shut them up."

Alf positively beamed at him. "Thanks, Dad."

Funny. The Dad word was starting to become more natural, and grow on them both. George ruffled Alf's hair gently, and the boy…his son…scampered back into the kitchen to start cleaning things up.

The afternoon went uneventfully. The Salem minister of magic, a Mr. Kensington, was gracious and affable; completely different from Kingsley Shacklebolt but no Fudge, either. George had been surprised to have so high a dignitary on what surely was a low-level task, but it turned out that the Americans were well versed in the English war with Voldemort, and that the Weasley family was a highly respected name.

George expected a rebuke when he told him about allowing Alfred out to soccer practice, but was surprised when Kensington smiled.

"You don't know we're here, Mr. Weasley…but we are. The boy is entirely safe roaming anywhere within Salem, as are you." He coughed. "You do drive, right?"

Fortunately as a lark he and Harry had gone for driver's licenses a few years back. Ron had tried as well, but HE failed abysmally. George, considering his limited experience with cars, was surprised at how well he'd done. In any event, driving wasn't a problem…except, of course, for the whole side of the road issue.

After the minister left, George was restless. He tried reading, but couldn't concentrate; he was supposed to be writing, according to his assigned back-story, but that computer thing Alf had fired up earlier frankly scared him. The television, however, though novel, was manageable, and after flipping through several channels he delighted in discovering something called Food Network.

Which is why when he heard Alf come through the door, George was in the midst of chopping garlic for something a muggle named Rachel Ray called easy roast chicken breast. "Eh, Alf…this whole cooking thing might not be so bad!" George called out excitedly. "If I had Rachel Ray teaching potions, your Dad and I might have actually gotten our OWLS." He chuckled to himself. "Course, there's no danger of garlic and rosemary blowing up if combined in the wrong proportions."

"Smells good." Alf said, coming in and sprawling down at the table, covered in dirt and looking miserable.

"Uh, oh." George finished prepping the dish and popped it in to the oven, pleased to see it had actually pre-heated when he'd turned the dial as instructed. Then he came down next to his rather grimy son. "Went badly?" He asked, gently.

"Actually I think it went pretty well." Alf rubbed at his forehead. "I saved everything…playing the game itself was okay. But…" He took a deep breath. "It wasn't FUN like it had been back home. I dunno…they take it so much more seriously here."

"You don't have to play." George offered.

Alf sat up immediately. "I WANT to play…" He said quickly. "It's just different…" He sank back down on the table, glum.

"Mmm…" George rubbed Alf's back, feeling him relax gradually. "If you think about it, kiddo, you've had A LOT of different this year." He paused, but kept going when Alf didn't speak. "Your mum passed away, you found out magic was real, discovered a whole enormous host of crazy family, found out you didn't have magic because of even crazier family, and had a price put on your head before moving to America with an Uncle who you didn't know existed three months ago who you're now expected to call Dad."

"You forgot tried to blow up said Uncle's livelihood in a snit, but otherwise, yeah, that pretty much sums up how I spent my summer vacation." Alf did give him a wry smile. "I think I'm just tired…can I go up and have a shower?"

"I wish you would…you're over-riding the smell of my excellent cooking." He waved his hand demonstrably, and Alf rose slowly. "But seriously, kiddo, do you want me to spell the water? It comes out ice cold." George offered.

Alf paused, turned back at the hallway door, and met George's eye with a question. "You did know there are two different knobs, right, and if you mix them you get the right temperature?" He asked.

George didn't say a word as it sank in, and Alfred's mood broke, as he laughed without stopping his whole way to the bathroom.

WWWWWWW

An hour later, Alf and George were sprawled up on the couch together, eating Chinese takeout.

"I thought it would cook faster at 600." George sheepishly admitted.

Alf smiled again. "Muggle ovens don't work with that kind of logic." But he nudged him. "It smelled great before it burned, though…you should totally try again."

"I've bested Death Eaters and Werewolves, no muggle oven is going to defeat me!" He promised, chomping down the pork lo-main. "So…learn anything interesting about our little area of the world today?"

"I talked to Mike a bit on the sidelines. He's okay…said if he'd ever talked back to his dad like I talked back to you he'd have been back-handed." Alf looked at him with a question. "DID I say something I shouldn't have? I didn't mean to."

"You did NOT." George said stoutly, stealing a shrimp from Alf's chow main. "I get the impression that O'Malley would rather his son not talk at all. I prefer otherwise. What else did you learn?"

"Met some of the other kids in the neighborhood…nice enough, the lot of them, I guess. Oh, and our neighbor on the other side? She's probably going to be my teacher this year. A Miss Fabry." Alf shot him a meaning glance. "Mike told me that his dad told him she was a lesbian."

George nearly choked on his food. Spitting bamboo shoot into a napkin, he wiped his mouth and looked at Alfred, who had a hint of a smile on his face. "You purposely tried to shock me on that one!" He accused.

"Worked!" Alf pointed out.

"Still…do you…ah…know what…I mean…" George felt his face grow red.

"Sort of." Alf admitted. "I mean, not really, just that lesbians don't like men much." He took a sip of soda. "And I get the impression that Mike's dad tried to pick her up once and she ticked him off. Therefore, HE's decided she's a lesbian."

George snorted, figuring Alf probably had it reasoned out pretty well. Although he wasn't sure it was something he should be letting the boy talk about so lightly.

"What do you mean O'Malley tried to pick her up?" George asked.

"He's divorced…Mike sees his Mum in the summer…she's a research chemist at Harvard. He, believe it or not, is a lawyer. Anyway, he wanted our neighbor to go out with him…apparently nobody knows what her story is and there was a bet on." Alf scraped the last of the food out of the container. "She's obviously very smart, if she turned him down."

"Agreed." George coughed lightly. "You know not to spread that whole…um…rumor around, right?"

"Course I do." Alf looked shocked. "Although a lot of the kids were making comments about it, edged on by Coach…that's what Mike's dad wants us to call him, by the way. I thought the whole conversation was pretty ugly, actually."

"It is ugly, gossiping about a stranger like that…" The phone interrupted him. Alf looked a question, and George waved him off.

"I've got it down now, mate." Confidently he went to pick up the hand-set. "Weatherby residence." He intoned dramatically, causing Alf to giggle.

"WEATHERBY! O'MALLEY HERE." George held the receiver out from his ear; he couldn't afford to lose the hearing in this one.

"Coach O'Malley…we were just talking about you." George replied. Alf came to stand beside him.

"LISTEN, GREAT KID YOU HAVE…REALLY FINE."

"Thanks…I know." George beamed.

O'Malley wasn't done. "STARTING GOALIE RIGHT AWAY. BLOWS EVERYONE ELSE ON THE TEAM TO THE SIDE, INCLUDING MY PATHETIC OFFSPRING."

Alf scowled, and George draped an arm around his shoulder. "I'm sure your son is just…"

"I'LL WHIP THEM INTO SHAPE, THOUGH. WON'T HAVE YOUR SON BEING EMBARASSED BY A BUNCH OF SISSY BOYS ACTING LIKE CHILDREN…"

"They _are_ children…" George grumbled, to no avail. O'Malley was apparently on auto-pilot.

"ANYWAY…PRACTICE SATURDAY AFTERNOON. NEED YOU TO COME BY AND SIGN A RELEASE FOR THE BOY. BY GOD, WE'RE GOING TO WIN STATES THIS YEAR!"

The phone hung up with a clatter, leaving George stunned and frustrated. "What an _idiot_!" He spat out.

"First class." Alf agreed, arms crossed.

George looked down at him. "Listen, are you sure you want to play for this man? I don't much care for his attitude." He went back in his mind to his own days playing Quidditch for Hogwarts. Oliver Wood was driven, but never _that_ bad.

"I really want to play, and I don't think there's any option." Alf sighed.

"Alright…just remember…you want out at any time you just tell me. Got it?"

"Got it."

They returned together to the couch, and George pulled out a box of DVD's. "Alfred, be prepared to be amazed…while you were out demonstrating English superiority of _soccer_ skills, I was studying our topic of discussion this morning…American Baseball. Behold, I have obtained the holy grail of our brethren neighbors…the Boston Red Sox World Series highlight reel, 2004 version!" He raised the disk to the sky, making Alf laugh.

"All day while I was out and you were supposedly writing, you were watching baseball?" Alf shook his head. "Pathetic!"

"On the contrary…I was mostly watching the Food Network. Hermione sent this over as a study guide to the area of sorts. Besides, we are under orders to fit in to our little muggle society. I have ascertained that our neighbors are all crazy, and this…" He waved the box. "Is why. Tonight, we learn about the curse of the Bambi, the Evil Umpire, and the stolen base that changed the world."

"You're out of your mind!" Alf just shook his head. But he didn't complain, just settled in beside George, with a bowl of pop-corn and the DVD. Leaning his head in, he whispered quietly. "I know we can't choose our family. But if we could have, I would have chosen you."


	2. Ch 2 August 2008, II

Alf left early the next day…Mike O'Malley had come about the house to see if he'd wanted to kick the ball about a bit, and George had gleefully shoed him off. He honestly didn't care much for O'Malley, but his kid seemed a nice enough bloke, and George was happy that Alfred was making friends. Mike had also dropped of a stack of forms permitting Alf to play soccer. After an hour's worth of painstaking reading which essentially left George with the impression that all that mattered to the town was that George understand any danger to life and limb Alf faced wasn't their fault, he signed them, planning on bringing them over to O'Malley Saturday.

He tried to write a little, since he was supposed to be preparing something of the sort. Eventually somebody would ask him what his book was about. But since he was no writer, and had no desire to be one, he was rather clueless where to begin, and was soon distracted. He grabbed the sports pages; knowing that he was about to meet some other parents he wanted to have a few factoids he could throw at them so he didn't look like a complete moron. Then he looked again for the educational Ms. Ray on the Food Network…no luck there till that afternoon.

Finally, with nothing left inside except the daunting computer, he decided to head out back to his small garden, maybe do a spot of weeding. After all, that was essentially the same the world over, right? Except of course…he grinned…no lawn gnomes!

The garden was small, bordered by a three foot high fence on two sides; the back side had a low stone fence which overlooked the neighboring school yard, and its fields. In the distance he spotted Alf…couldn't miss that Weasley red-hair…running about with a number of boys, and he was pleased. He turned round to a patch of winter squash, and began aerating the soil.

"Rufus! Stop that!" A woman's voice, exasperated, came to him, along with the whimper of a dog. "Rufus!"

Rising, George looked over the fence to see a rather sizable but playful black mutt escape from its owner, and charge for a squirrel.

"Rufus, you dumb brute, they don't want to play with you!" She yelled, grinning. Her hair was dark brown, pulled up in a high pony-tail and she was nearly paler than George. Dressed in some comfortable looking slouchy clothes, it was hard to tell much else about her physically. George chuckled to himself; he wasn't here to flirt with the neighbors. (Fred's voice seemed to speak to him: _But it would be rude, George, not to say hello_!)

But before he could get up the nerve to introduce himself to the person he supposed to be the Miss Fabry Alf had mentioned, a different voice intruded.

"Get that damned animal out of my yard, you miserable bitch!"

All good humor vanished from the young woman's face, and her jaw clenched. "Rufus isn't in your yard, O'Malley. He's got better taste than that."

George spotted O'Malley by the fence on the other side of the tree where Rufus was trying to play with the squirrels.

"If he's got your taste…" The large blonde man looked her up and down. "…the pound should have put him out of his misery."

The woman snapped her fingers, and to George's surprise Rufus trotted right over to her. Well trained dog. "O'Malley, I'm sorry…my exercise clothes aren't enough to excite you? Hardly surprising, though…since I think you last exercised in 1989!"

As O'Malley had his gut sucked in and was trying to look impressive, that rather deflated him. George could hardly refrain from a snicker. Which brought him to the attention of Rufus; the large dog bounded over to him and put his paws up on the fence by way of greeting. Not exactly how George had planned on announcing an entrance, but no way around it now; he reached over to scratch the dog's neck, and the dog accepted gleefully.

Rufus' actions had brought him to the attention of the others, of course, and unfortunately it was O'Malley who spoke first.

"Eh, Weatherby, I see you chose the better of the two options with the dog; don't bother with the woman, she's _frigid_! Fabry, meet my friend Weatherby…his son is my new star soccer player, and believe me when I say I'm sure he's already heard _all about you_!"

George gaped, taken aback by being brought into the conversation, and the insinuation of friendship with this…man. Before he could recover, the Fabry woman snapped a quick, "Rufus, COME."

Reluctantly the dog, trotted away from George, who was trying desperately to find his tongue…he did not want to be tainted by association.

Too late. She turned and glared at him. "And I'll thank _you_, carrot head, to not be hovering over the fence like that. Whatever bet O'Malley has with you, you _lose!_"

_Carrot head? Bet?_ George stuttered slightly, but to no avail; she had turned, dog in hand, and slammed into her house.

"That went well." Alf was behind him, having come up from the fields for lunch. He was absolutely filthy, which George heartily approved of.

"I can't believe that just happened…the way it just happened." George finally found his tongue, and turned around with Alf by his side. "Now I have one neighbor I can't stand, and one who can't stand me!" He played visibly wounded for the moment. "I'm used to being more popular than that!"

"Woe is you." Chimed in Alf, wiping his face and smudging dirt across it. "Mike asked me over for lunch, but I told him you were expecting me." He grimaced. "Mostly I didn't want to be around Mr. O'Malley…Nate Thomas told me that the house is miserable. But I think he thinks I'm a bit of a wus."

George harrumphed under his breath. "Sounds like something his father would say."

"Probably. But not as long as I'm star goalie, I suppose. What's for lunch?"

"Water." George replied.

"Huh?"

Surreptitiously George had gotten the hose. After all, the weather had gone warm again, and Alf _was_ filthy. He hit the boy full on with a spray of water."

"HEY!" Alf spluttered, laughing. "No fair, Dad!" He ran forward, trying to grasp it from his hand.

"Entirely fair, Son. I am saving my nice clean floors from you."

They chased each other around for a few minutes, with Alf surprisingly able to grasp the hose back and nail George full in the face. George roared in mock anger, and lunged at his son, who hesitated, and then lunged right back into George, so that they knocked into each other, falling over. George tickled Alfred without mercy, and his laughter pealed out loud. The hose still sprayed between them.

"Truce!" Alf begged finally, and they both let the hose go, collapsing in a heap on the grass, laughing and panting at the same time.

"Oh, c'mon you!" George finally said, rising and pulling Alf up with him. "Let's go scrounge some food up for us both, I'm starving!"

Alf darted ahead of him, George pausing to turn off the water. As he did so, he noticed Ms. Fabry, sitting on her porch, where she had been watching them. Her look was unfathomable. George saluted her, and made a mock bow. She turned and went back inside.

_Damn._ George shrugged. It seamed that getting past the impression O'Malley had left her with was not going to be so easy.

WWWWWWWWWW

Saturday morning came round, and again the weather had changed, a gray, overcast day with more than a hint of fall in the air. Alf had dressed and gone out already; the boys hung about the field a bit, he'd been told, before practice. George wanted to finish up his coffee and a bit of writing before he followed suit.

It had been funny; he'd lamented to Alf about not having a clue what he was supposed to be writing about, and how he feared somebody would finally ask him and he'd just stand there like an idiot. Alf had mentioned in an off hand way that he'd always wished his mom had written the Harry Potter stories down, those things that had been fairy tails to him as a child.

George had demurred at first; he was supposed to be a fiction writer, not a historian. But Alfred had laughed and said to muggles Harry Potter would be fiction; they sure as shite weren't going to believe in dragons and giant squids, and evil wizards with scary friends.

George's second concern had been that Harry would _kill_ him. But after all, he wasn't ever going to bloody well finish the thing, was he? It wasn't ever going to see publication. Just something to occupy his time, and have available for any wandering muggle eyes.

And then, to his surprise, he'd found it fun. Instead of spending the day watching cooking shows, he now found himself at the computer, which he'd become confident wouldn't blow up on him, trying to tell all about Harry's first year at Hogwarts. If, perhaps, a pair of red-headed twins came of as slightly more gallant and heroic than had been actually the case, well, after all, it _was_ fiction!

He was just finishing the part about Harry's sorting into Gryffindor when he realized he needed to dart out. He grabbed his green jumper and dashed out, pausing only to drain the dregs of his coffee.

The dash across the fields had felt good; the day, if cold, had a crispness to it that felt good in his lungs. Leaves were starting to turn colors on the trees that fringed the fields. This, all in all, was not a bad life. If he could only come and go to The Burrow as he pleased, he might even consider staying here, should Alf not respond to the upcoming potion.

Four other fathers were sitting in a small metal bleacher section. George pulled up short of them all, trying to seem more adult like. A conversation with Percy from right before he'd left for America came back to him:

"_Remember to keep a decoy handy, George…some way to throw them off. I learned that the hard way in the ministry during the war, before I could escape. Find something that they talk about, learn enough about it to make a few comments, and let that take all distraction from yourself." Percy had smiled thinly, and squeezed his arm in encouragement "Don't make up facts; ask questions and let others give the facts to you!"._

So he was preparing for such a possibility when one man, a slight brunette, rose to greet him. "You must be Alf's father. I'm Bob Thomas. This here is Don Sullivan, and Steve Whitman."

George held out his hands. "George Weatherby."

"So…my Nat tells me you're a writer?"

George launched into the carefully spun tail of his success with obscure English Mythology, and of his fervent desire to complete a novel. As expected:

"So…what's it about?"

He explained loosely the premise. Two of the men seemed moderately impressed/amused; the one called Sullivan was less so. "A children's book?"

"Well, yes."

There was a few moments of uncomfortable silence. George looked over the field where Alf was stretching carefully. Their eyes met, and Alf gave him a hesitant wave. George raised his hand back, but wondered why the move had been so cautious. Meanwhile, he could sense more questions growing in the minds of his fellow fathers, and remembering Percy, and the endless ranting from the sports pages, he tossed out an easy lob.

"So…tough game for the Sox last night, eh?"

Much to his amusement, that was all he'd needed to say. The other fathers each jumped in, expostulating mightily about the manager, the pitcher, the right fielder, and anything else they could criticize. George listened, but knew that he didn't need to say a further thing.

He smirked to himself. Percy's suggestion had worked like a charm; any interest in George's personal history faded with one key, well chosen question from him that set the men off debating subjects infinitely more fond to them. His presence was now entirely superfluous.

A sharp whistle split the air, and the fathers all turned around expectantly. Sudden tension seemed to grow between them, which seemed odd; thirty seconds earlier George would have guessed everyone to be fairly old friends.

O'Malley strutted the field, to a row of boys now standing at attention with military precision; George was reminded of when the Durmstrang students had marched into Hogwarts.

"**Alright you pathetic bunch of maggots…**"

_What?_

"**I want to be up-front about what you can expect of being on this team. You can expect us to win. Winning is all that matters. This team hasn't lost a regional championship in ten years, and we've only lost at states because I've been too soft. Well, I'm not soft any more.**"

Twenty wide, cowed, pairs of eyes followed him. Well, nineteen pairs; Alf was wide eyed, and perhaps surprised, but he didn't look the least bit cowed.

"**Don't be surprised if I kick your ass if you fail. Because I do not tolerate failure. I will not let you let me down. And if you or your parents object to the way I do things, you can sit home and knit with your sisters. On this field your ass is mine. Understood?**'

Nineteen boys cried out, "YES, SIR!" Alf was too stunned to speak, which fortunately O'Malley didn't notice.

"Good. Now here's what we're doing today…"

As the coach began to assign the kids positions to work on, George turned disbelievingly to the other fathers. "Is that man _always_ like this?"

Bob looked at him as if he were crazy. "Butch O'Malley is the most successful youth coach in central Mass!"

"Yeah, but…" George started, but the other fathers drowned him out.

"His boys all end up playing varsity soccer in high school…"

"One got a full scholarship to Brown University last year…"

"He knows how to get them performing. They know this is what it takes to win."

Was it? George didn't happen to agree there, but thoroughly talked down by the other parents, he shut up and turned his eyes to the field.

Alf was in the net, and a group of boys were taking turns trying to drive the ball past him. George walked forward to the chain fence that separated the field from the bleachers, and forgot, for a few moments, what a pompous idiot his neighbor was.

Forgot, because Alfred took his breath away.

Save after save, after save. While O'Malley was screaming in the background at some boys doing passing drills, Alf, all eyes and quick reflexes, worked the net like he owned it. He wasn't that tall yet, maybe five feet, but his vertical leap was outstanding. There didn't seem to be a corner of the net he couldn't cover, nothing he couldn't reach, and nothing he couldn't anticipate. The trickiest shots nearly went past him, only to be set aside as if they were hitting an invisible force field.

George found himself cheering him on, laughing in joy. That…that was his son out there…his boy…blowing everyone else out of the water. A better keeper than Ron had been, though Ron had ended up pretty good. In fact, only Oliver Wood had ever looked as good to him. Different sports, of course, but same concept.

"GO ALFRED!" He suddenly bellowed out; Alf winked at him, as he slid and kicked a tricky ground shot away from the goal.

"Blimey, no wonder he gets so dirty!" George mumbled, to an admiring Bob Thomas who'd come up beside him.

Then O'Malley made his way over to their end of the practice, and things got ugly.

Oh, he didn't say a word to Alf…there was nothing to say to Alf, as he was flawless. But he proceeded to absolutely rip each of the boys attempting to score to shreds.

"Call that a shot, you FUCKING GIRL!"

"You're totally USELESS, Anderson."

"Jacobs…get your HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS next time."

He turned to grab one who, shame faced after being embarrassed, was going head down to the back of the line. It was his own son.

"**Are you crying, you pathetic excuse for a man?" **

The sound of the back of O'Malley's hand smacking Michael's face made George ill. He started forward, but Thomas held him in check.

"You'd just make it worse." He was told.

Worse? Bloody hell!

The practice continued in the same vein for the next ten minutes, with one boy being shoved violently on to the ground, and another wretched so violently by the arm that George was afraid it would be dislocated.

Then, Nat Turner hit the most beautiful shot George could ever imagine. The ball seemed to waver in mid air; Alf knew where it was going but the previous shot had taken him farther to one side. He leapt and just got his finger tips on it, but it wasn't enough; it was quite nearly a professional caliber shot, even he could tell that. The ball just nicked the uprights and slid into the net.

Alf picked himself up and smiled at Nat. "Beauty shot, Nat!"

George was about to say the same thing to Nat's father, when O'Malley came forward to Alfred, picked him up by both shoulders, and began to shake him violently." 

"**What kind of athlete are you, complimenting your enemy! You are the most pathetic, worthless…"**

"OI!" George bellowed, rage he had never known coursing through his veins. "LET GO OF MY SON YOU BLOATED TOAD!"

Shocked, O'Malley did just that, dropping Alfred to the ground. George, face pale, eyes glaring, jaw working overtime, came up within inches of the coach. Afraid of what he might say, he met the man's stunned eyes; clearly O'Malley was not used to being contradicted on the field. Slowly, George took out the permission papers and, pretending they were the man in front of them, he tore them first in half, then again, and then again, before tossing them in the air so that they landed down like so much dandruff on O'Malley's head.

"My son…" He spoke, with forced control. "Is not going to play football for you. I am not going to expose him to the abominable behavior and abuse…YES, ABUSE…that apparently seems to be accepted around here. You are going to have to find yourself another goalie…this one is _**out**_"

"Dad…" Alf spoke, softly. "Dad, I'm okay…really…I shouldn't have missed the shot…" His voice sounded shaky, but George kept his eyes on O'Malley. "Dad, I want to play…"

O'Malley snorted. "YOUR SON IS A STRONGER MAN THAN YOU ARE, WEATHERBY!"

George shook his head. "We have different ideas about what makes us strong, then. We're going, Alf."

"Dad…" Alf pleaded.

"NOW." He snapped, firmly grasping Alf's shoulder and guiding him past the bleachers. A few of the boys hissed, and George felt for Alf; he did. He knew that this wasn't going to win either of them any popularity contests; he just hoped that most of the kids would see it as George being strict rather than as a reflection of Alf. Probably not, though, which meant that Alfred was probably mighty pissed at him at the moment.

They walked in silence across the fields. George tried speaking twice. "I won't have you treated like that, Alfred. The man isn't to be trusted."

No response.

And then, as they got to the low stone fence by their own property, he actually trotted out the one line that used to make him want to hurl as a kid. "Someday you'll understand."

Alf hopped the fence, and then ran to the house, slamming the door shut behind him. George sighed heavily, feeling like a complete heal, but knowing he'd done what had to be done. O'Malley might have all the titles in the world, but it was no excuse for treating children the way he was, and if the other fathers were too stupid to protect their own children, it didn't excuse him from protecting his.

_Did I do the right thing, Fred? _He asked himself miserably.

_Hell, YES!_ Was the immediate answer that popped into his head, which almost made him think Fred had really answered.

Of course, Fred would probably follow up with, _But the last line you could have done without, mate._

Thanks, thanks a whole lot.

The evening dragged. Alfred had showered and locked himself into his room without any further conversation. George had even tried making the roast chicken dish again…it came out _perfectly_…but when he tried to coax Alf out of the room all he got was a disgruntled, "M'not hungry."

There was an electric crackle by the fireplace, and George looked up. It was Molly, calling to firechat. "Mum!" He came forward eagerly, wishing he could have her hug him and cheer him up.

"Allo, darling." She said, softly. "We still can't visit yet, but wanted to see how our missing boys were doing…"

He spoke glibly to her for a few moments, but she could sense he was distracted.

"What's wrong with you, George? And where's Alfred?"

"Locked in his room not speaking to me." He admitted. "Look, Mum, is Dad there? I need to talk with him for a moment…"

Within seconds Arthur's comforting face was before him. "What is it, son?" He asked gently.

In a stuttering rush George explained the whole thing to his father, right down to Alfred's self-induced exile and to his own feelings of being a total failure as a parent.

"Did I do the right thing, Dad?" He finally asked.

"Of course you did, George, and you know you did." Arthur soothed him. "Your first and only job is to keep Alfred safe, and you have to do whatever it takes to ensure that. And you did. Alfred doesn't see it that way, because he is ten years old. But I would never have left you, or any of your brothers, in the care of a man like that…" There was a pause. "After all, you won't always be at these games, will you? What if he goes even farther than he did today? What if he struck him, or worse? Sounds to me like he'd be capable of it. And Alf would never tell you…he'd be embarrassed and ashamed. Men like that have ways of destroying kids, George, so subtly that you don't see it coming." Arthur chuckled. "Of course, you DID see it coming, and that's why you took him out. Well done, George."

That was some relief, at least. "Thanks, Dad." He sighed. "I keep going over it in my mind, but I wouldn't do a thing differently.

"Nor should you. Give him time, George. This is a bitter disappointment to him, but he knows you love him. Just…give him time."

Easier said than done, George thought later, listlessly watching a parade of chefs on television. I want my boy down here, sprawled on the couch with me like we usually do, playing a game or watching some stupid muggle show.

"Chicken's good."

Alf stood half in the doorway, a plate in his hand. George knew his Mum would have made him eat in the kitchen; he didn't much feel like it, though. George didn't say anything in return, but he slid over on the couch with a motion, and Alf slowly came forward and sat beside him.

They didn't speak for a bit, although George did reach in to his plate to nip a bit of chicken. "Not enough garlic…" He murmured.

"Yeah, we'd only kill one vampire instead of two." Alf said. George managed a smirk. "I'm sorry I was such a total prat, Dad." He added, quietly.

"I'm sorry I had to pull you off the field." George replied, draping his arm around the boy. "You must know that his behavior was totally inappropriate."

"Yeah." Alf sighed. "Part of me is glad, actually." He admitted. "O'Malley scares me."

George felt like a ten-thousand pound weight slid from his shoulders.

"But…" Uh, oh. "This is the only time in my life I've ever been the best at something." George heard Alf's voice break. "I was pretty good back in England, but it was hard to know because everyone was good. And then, I got to Diagon Alley…" The boy gulped. "And I couldn't do anything everyone else could do. I was useless…and pathetic…and…"

"No!" George turned to him, surprised to see Alf fighting back tears. "No, Alf, you were never either of those things!"

"But it's how I _felt_." He sniffed hard, chewing on his lip. "But here…everyone kept looking at me on the field like I was really special…and I just wanted you to have something to be proud of me for…"

George hugged him tightly, squeezing him. "I was proud of you today, Alfred…was proud to see how well you were doing. Your Uncle Ron was quite a keeper in his day, but could never hold a candle to you, and certainly not on the ground. But I was most proud of you when you missed that goal, and you turned to Nat and congratulated him. That's the person I want you to be, Alf…and that isn't what O'Malley would have let you be. I won't have anyone change you. Not when I think you're just perfect as is."

Alf sniffed hard, and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He swallowed, and then leaned against George, who sank back against the couch. "I was afraid you were going to turn him into a pig or something. That could have been ugly."

George laughed. "On the contrary, it would have made a huge improvement.


	3. Ch 3 September, 2008

The next morning after breakfast Alf was in the back yard kicking the ball around to himself. George strolled out to the front door to check the mail.

"_Weatherby you idiot_!" O'Malley snapped to him. "_There's no mail on Sunday in this country!_"

"I am well aware of that." George called back. (He hadn't been, but oh, well.). "I never checked it yesterday."

The American Ministry was packaging owl-delivered information in a standard muggle format. He pulled two packets from the box, and turned, hoping that one of them was from Ron…

He nearly walked smack in to Ms. Fabry, walking Rufus.

Their eyes met…hers calculating, his startled. And this time, inspiration struck. With his best, most flirty grin, George smiled at her, and he knelt down to pet Rufus, who was loving it. Still smiling, George looked up at her and spoke.

"I am not in any way, shape, or form trying to come on to you, nor am I involved in any sort of a bet with that ignominious blow-hard across the street." He winked at her, rose, and leaned forward suggestively. "However, I am also not speaking loud enough for him to hear me, and what he is seeing right now is probably enough to get him to blow a blood vessel."

Ms. Fabry's lips twitched slightly. Encouraged, he went on, now leaning against the mail box. "In fact, I may say that if you were to give some very slight indication that you found me amusing in even the vaguest way, it might finish him off, which could only benefit the neighborhood."

She fought it for a second, and then broke out in a laugh.

George joined her. "Excellent, I see you are an actor of first rate ability. Allow me to formally introduce myself as George Weatherby, writer, father of one, and no friend of Butch O'Malley's."

"I am Michelle Fabry." She smiled. "Rufus, you've already met."

"Indeed I have. Remarkably intelligent dog."

To his surprise she leaned in to him, mimicking his suggestive manner. "Is it true, George Weatherby, that you pulled your son off of O'Malley's soccer team?"

George blinked. "Word gets around, I see."

"You have no idea." She smiled, and gently grasped his arm. "I am glad to hear it; I wish more parents had your guts. I teach fifth grade and most of Butch's team are either quivering masses of nerves or arrogant jerks hiding their nerves." Reaching over to him, she enticingly grabbed a pen that George had been carrying in his pocket, and took his hand. Gently she turned his wrist and wrote a number on it. "Right now O'Malley…if he hasn't already stroked out…is going ballistic because he thinks I'm giving you my phone number. In reality, it's the number of a friend of mine…a Jim Castelli. Jimmy is an accountant and a terrific guy."

"Do I need an accountant." George looked at the phone number and tried to put on a moonstruck expression. It wasn't hard.

"No, but you need a soccer coach…and Jimmy is one. Contrary to what O'Malley says, there's more than one team in this town. Mind you, they're not that good…Jimmy started it last year when his son came home from O'Malley's practice with a black eye. He basically takes anyone who isn't good enough to entice O'Malley, or whose parents have brains. Give him a call…he's a nice guy, and a great father." She winked up at him, and turned away.

Unable to believe his fortune, George stayed at the mailbox for a few seconds, memorizing that beautiful number and trying not to think about how it felt when she'd written on his hand. Before he could move she'd turned around once more. "Oh, and Weatherby…" She called out, loud enough for O'Malley to hear. "I wasn't acting. You DO amuse me."

Amuse. Well, where else did a Weasley twin start? George bowed to her, and then jogged quickly up to the house, calling for Alfred excitedly.

WWWWWWWW

"Nice to meet you in person, George Weatherby."

George took Jimmy Castelli's hand, and liked him immediately. From the phone call he'd sounded entirely reasonable and intelligent, and in person that was enhanced even more. He made no pretense of pretending to be an athlete, or dressing like one, nor did he pretend that the kids on his team were some sort of world champion caliber athletes. He had curly hair, slightly thinning, and a kind smile, and the kids, not nearly so regimented or organized as the Stingers, clearly adored him. His own son, Tony, was a year ahead of Alfred, and looked like Castelli in miniature, only with glasses.

"O'Malley's putting it about that your son is a coward, by the way." Castelli added.

"That…" George grumbled. "Pisses me off. Blame me all he wants, but it wasn't Alf's choice to leave that field, it was all on me. Not that I regret it, mind."

"Nor should you…O'Malley hit my kid once, and I think he's struck a few others but nobody talks about it. I reported him to the youth league and their response was I could start my own team if I didn't like it. So I did." Castelli called out to the boys then, and pulled them in a circle.

This, George thought, watching Jimmy at work, now THIS was coaching. He spent a full half hour demonstrating a few moves to them, talking about basic points in the game, and then having people partner to work on what he'd just shown them. Only then did he have them work on shots on goal. And Alfred continued right where he'd left off, unflappable and amazing, only this time he was having fun.

Castelli let the boys try from different angles, gave pointers, and told jokes. There were a lot of high-fives and encouragement between the kids.

After fifteen minutes, Castelli pulled Alf out of goal, and whispered something to him. Alf grinned, and took his spot in line to shoot against a new goalie.

Jimmy worked his way back to George later. "You didn't yell." He said, looking at him curiously.

"About what?" George was startled.

"Me removing Alf from the net."

George shrugged. "You're the coach, and you seem to have things pretty well in hand."

Jimmy gave him a sideways glance. "You know, most fathers, with a kid with as much talent as yours…and man, he's good, George…would have raised holy hell at seeing that."

"Yeah, but…" George thought it out. "This isn't a game. You need everyone to get practice, including the backup. And you know…" Memories of youth Quidditch came to mind. "At his age, he should be learning a lot of different things, not just goalie, right?"

"Right. And…" Castelli laughed a little. "I'd like my players to know how to score, and frankly I don't see them getting a thing past Alf."

George grinned. "I shouldn't brag, I know, and trust me when I say it's none of my doing…but he isn't bad, that's for sure."

At the end of the practice, Jimmy had frozen pops brought out for everyone. "Great job kids!"

Alfred, George was pleased to note, seemed to be making friends with the other boys around him, many of whom seemed at awe of him at first. But he noted his son taking time to work out a few moves with the kid who'd played goalie after him, motioning a few times, and pantomiming a leap.

"Nice kid." A voice spoke behind him.

It was Michelle Fabry.

"Thanks." George said, deciding to be normal instead of playing the little mocking game he'd done with her last time. "And thanks for the tip. Alf's much happier on this team, which makes me much happier."

She nodded over towards the school. "He's on my class list, by the way. New to the country, right, not just the town?"

"Yep." George admitted. "Sometimes I think he's adapting better than I am."

Her eyes scanned him carefully. "How's he holding up after his mother's death?"

Blimey, she didn't pull punches, did she? "Good days and bad days." Which was true; Alf's mother WAS recently deceased. The fact that he hadn't been married to her affected his part of the background story, not Alf's. "We're coping."

"Right. Sorry if that came out blunt…I don't really do subtle…"

"I hadn't noticed." George deadpanned. After a blink, she laughed again.

"Right. Forgot you've seen me around O'Malley. Anyway, I just wanted to know, since he's going to be in my class…sometimes there are things that don't find their way into a kid's file." She shrugged.

"Thanks for looking out for him." He said, honestly. He watched as Castelli noticed her there, and waved. "So…where do you know Jimmy from?"

"He was my fiancé's best friend." She said.

Ah. Well, that was short and to the point, wasn't it…or wait…

"Was?"

"My fiancé died." She said, as bluntly as she'd asked about his 'wife'. "Well, see you around, Weatherby. See Alf in school tomorrow."

"Right. See you."

He was left watching after her, when Castelli came up. "Hey, George…is it true you're a writer?"

"Yes…working on a novel." George lined up the answers for the usual questions in his head.

They didn't come. "Any chance you'd be willing to help out with the coaching?" George started, but Jimmy held his hand up. "I know, I know, not fair of me to assume, since you're working at home, that you'd be available. But I can use another hand two days a week after 3pm…I've got a college kid, Matty, working with me, and on Saturdays Dave Patterson's dad helps out. Me, I'm self employed, so I set my own hours, but finding somebody else in that situation is tough."

George felt torn. "I would really love to, but seriously, Jimmy, even though I'm English, I don't know a darned thing about the game. That probably doesn't make much sense, but…"

"Yeah, I heard about your ear injury…but you look pretty fit to me. Besides, I really need people just to keep the kids in line and focused…I have Matty for the technical stuff. And the kids like you."

Huh? "They haven't seen me before today…how do you know…"

Jimmy laughed. "Kids know, George. They can spot another big kid a mile away. They spotted me, didn't they?" 

Laughter bubbled up inside George, so suddenly he couldn't quell it. He missed his nieces and nephews, he had always loved kids. Why the hell not?

"Alright, Jimmy…but if I embarrass you, you were warned!" He held out his hand.

"Deal!"

Alf gave him a flying tackle. "I knew you'd do it!" He said, triumph ringing in his eyes. "This is going to be BRILLIANT!"

WWWWWWWWW

Brilliant might not have been the right word. Fun, however, it definitely was.

By the second week of September, Jimmy's Salem Wizards (George had nearly fallen over when he'd heard the team name) were 2-3. Which was two games more than they'd won last year. And the losses weren't blow-outs, either; they were close and hard played. Alf was the talk of the league, despite the fact that the Stingers were 5-0.

Alf's school work was going well; for some reason George was surprised by how smart he was. Not that he expected him to be dumb, just perhaps not quite so good a student. But he read, voraciously (that was the "half Katie" in him, no doubt), and grasped new concepts quickly.

George's novel was chugging along. He had just detailed the escapade Harry, Ron and Hermione had been through with the Troll in the bathroom, making up what he didn't know for sure. Alfred was always willing to give feedback.

And a letter from Hermione indicated that she and Draco had already made progress. They'd gathered most of the ingredients seeming to be needed for a counter potion, and were working on portion now. She also indicated that they had a new source who was proving to be invaluable for help.

Unfortunately news from Harry at the ministry was less sanguine. They knew who the culprits were in the attack on the store, but couldn't yet prove it, at least not in scope. Therefore, it was inadvisable for anyone to actually visit George at the moment. It did seem that the Bell family was not very aggressive with Alf out of reach, but hell, George didn't want to have to live in exile forever.

He missed his family. The letters and the firechats helped. But he missed being in the store with Ron, playing with the kids, even the lawn gnomes. And no amount of Rachel Ray, or watching and trying to understand the baseball pennant race, made up for his homesickness.

He was trying, though…tonight he was gamely attempting a beef stroganoff.

"Hey, Weatherby."

He looked up quickly to see Michelle Fabry at the kitchen window. She looked rather down.

"Hello, Ms. Fabry. I trust you're not here about my wayward offspring?"

She laughed at him. "Alf? Wayward? I should have twenty more like him in class."

George smiled. He hadn't really seen her beyond a friendly wave from time to time, so he was rather at a loss as to why she'd pop by otherwise. Not that it was unwelcome… not at all. Especially right now, when he was feeling rather down himself. "You look restless."

"House feels claustrophobic tonight." She said, shuddering. "Thought I'd take a walk, and then I smelled something good."

George flashed her a smile. "Join us…there' s more than enough."

She came in the back door and looked at the stove, soon bursting out laughing. "I should say so, George Weatherby! You cook like you're cooking for ten!"

He looked rather sheepishly at the dish before him. "I know…I've never cooked much before, to be honest, but I seem to be channeling my portion control from my mother…we had a family of nine…my five brothers, sister, and parents. Cooking for ten isn't far off!"

"Your poor sainted mother." Michelle's eyes widened. "Seriously, I shouldn't stay, I'm Alf's teacher and…"

"Sit!" George commanded. "I don't get to do this that often." He glanced along sideways at her. "But if you stay, you're going to have to call me George."

He watched her, could see the debate going on in her mind. And he realized he'd won when she smiled at him. "Then I'm going to have to be Michelle."

"Fair enough. You don't look like a Myrtle, so Michelle it is." He quipped. "Let me finish off this sauce."

At that moment with the crash of arrival most noted in ten year olds, Alf bounded in. "Hey, Dad…You'll never believe it…I got an A on my essay on…oh, Hi, Ms. Fabry." He skidded to a startled stop in the kitchen, the paper waving in his hand futilely. George grabbed it with a grin and stuck it on the fridge.

Michelle smiled at him. "That would be the essay on how airplanes can fly, and it was very well written, Alfred. Why would you be surprised?"

"Oh, er…it's just…" He looked at George with appeal.

"My father…" George said, steering Alf to the sink to wash his hands. "Is totally intrigued by flight theory, you could say. Alf just about killed himself looking up information. We're going to send the paper back to England for him."

George gave Alf a look to see if he'd done alright. Alf smiled in encouragement, even as he scrubbed. "Grandpa will get a kick out of it."

Michelle smiled at him, but with a sense of sadness. "Sounds like you have a nice family, gentlemen."

George nudged Alf. "You never made your bed, there, Alf."

Alf blushed. "Sorry…woke up late…" He sighed under George's moderately stern glare. "I'll just take care of it now."

George didn't let himself smile in full until Alf was out of sight. "He gets distracted, sometimes." He took a look over at Michelle. "You can definitely use a glass of wine. Hope the red is okay…I bought it primarily to cook with."

She didn't turn him down. "Today's a really bad day for me." She absent-mindedly played with a ring that she wore on a chain round her neck. George suspected it had been from her late fiancé. The late fiancé she had not mentioned since that day at the field, and whom he for some reason felt shy about asking Jimmy about. George went about finishing the meal, sensing she was watching him.

"George…you must have been very young when you got married?" She asked, thoughtfully. "You can't be more than thirty?"

"Thirty last April." He chuckled lightly. "I was twenty when Alf was born." All true, of course.

She shook her head sadly. "I'm envious, in a way. I've got a few years on you, and yet a lot less to show for it."

George paused. Until three months ago, he hadn't had a damned thing to show either, not like what she meant. But he couldn't tell her that. "It hasn't always been easy."

"But you have each other." She tipped her wine glass. "I…have Rufus."

"And a fine specimen of canine he is!" George trilled, hoping to get her mood elevated slightly. He pulled plates out, and she helped him set the table without being asked. At one point they bumped into each other, reaching for the water glasses, and found themselves staring inches from each other's face. George held his breath.

Michelle spoke quietly. "You've known tragedy, George Weatherby, haven't you." She said, with quiet certainty.

"You too." He said. He could see her loss in the depths of her eyes.

"You're wife, then?" She asked. "But there's more?"

He was sorry about Katie, sure, but could hardly call that a tragedy. "My brother." He said, feeling a spasm of pain that would periodically rear it's ugly head. "My TWIN brother."

"Oh." She said, evenly, squeezing his arm. "I thought it was something. The sadness runs deep, doesn't it."

"You? Beyond your fiancé?" He asked, following her to the table with the casserole dish.

"My parents. When I was nine." She looked at him carefully. "I used to think that the loss made you appreciate the sweetness more." She shrugged. "After Anthony…well, I don't know what to believe anymore. I moved here from New York, but sometimes it seems like nothing helps."

George heard Alf coming down the stairs. "The sweetness still exists." He said, quietly. "You just never know when it's going to happen."

WWWWWWWW

They had a lot of laughs, on the surface, playing something called Monopoly after dinner, though George sensed that melancholy still hung in the air. Alf brought a lot of levity to the dinner, and when she got up to leave she had given George a brief squeeze.

"You can never understand what this meant to me." She had said.

Alf had put the news on in the living room. "Oi, see if you can get me the Red Sox score…I don't want to sound like an idiot at the field tomorrow!" He followed in to the living room, only to see the television showing a large tower, crumbling into dust. "Blimey!" George whispered. "What happened there?"

Alf looked at him in surprise. "It's the anniversary of 9-11, Dad." He said. And blinked. "Didn't you know about 9-11 in the wizard world?"

George, speechless, sat next to Alf, as Alf explained it to him, as much as he understood anyway. "I was just a little kid when it happened, but everyone's seen the twin towers go down. A lot of people died that day."

"So much destruction…such ugliness…" George shook his head. "I guess a part of me believed evil only existed with the likes of Voldemort." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "It's awful."

"Yeah." Alf stretched and rose for bed. "I overheard Coach talking with somebody. I think his best friend died there. He was a firefighter."

Best friend.

_He was my fiancé's best friend._

_Today's just a really bad day for me._

Oh, bugger.

Suddenly Michelle Fabry was not such a puzzle at all.


	4. Ch 4 October, 2008

October began with the turning of the leaves, the smell of fresh apples seeming to be everywhere (especially in George's kitchen, where he was attempting to master pie crust), and a wonderful chill in the air. Alf seemed to be adapting quite well, and George, despite occasional bouts of homesickness, was making his way in this new world just fine.

Michelle Fabry had, by mid-October, become a frequent visitor. George at first would stop by to let her know "that he'd made way too much food…would she care to stop by for dinner?" After three weeks, they had dropped the pretense; twice a week she came by without asking, bringing a bottle of wine and perhaps a movie with her. She always took the back way, being very wary of how her visits might be perceived, especially to O'Malley.

The irony being the visits were entirely innocent. More so than perhaps George would wish. He was supposed to be a recent widower, after all; and she was understandably hesitant about starting a relationship herself. But innocent or not, in the eyes of someone like his disgruntled neighbor, her very standing as a teacher could be called into question, and George had no wish for that.

This particular night was one where Michelle was over, along with the almighty beast Rufus, and she was trying to fix the anti-virus on his computer. (Why would muggles invent machines that get sick, he wondered?). George's musings, however, were interrupted by Alfred, who was washing the dishes. "Can I have an allowance, Dad?"

"Uh…huh…" He didn't think he should admit he didn't know what an allowance was while Michelle was in earshot.

"You know, I could do specific chores, to earn some money?" Alf said, realizing at once the problem.

George frowned. "Do you need money? How much? You can have whatever you need, you know." He didn't get it. It was his job to support Alfred. That was part of being a parent. If Alf needed anything, it was his job to provide it. And Alf helped around the house because he lived here.

It seemed perfectly simple to him.

Alf frowned, clearly not expecting this. "I mean, if I need something and you're not around…besides, I'd like…I mean…to have some cash of my own." He looked a little flustered, and then trotted out a kid's tried and true defense. "All my friends have allowances!"

George knew that one too well. But he also sensed that there was probably some muggle thing he wasn't getting. "We'll talk about this later." He stressed, perhaps sounding more peeved than he meant to be.

"Fine." Alf said, but with a definite current of annoyance. Putting away the last dish, he turned around. "I'm going to go work on my math homework." And without so much as a smile he left the room.

"George…" Michelle looked up from the computer after Alfred left. "I don't mean to intrude, but he's right…it is quite usual in this country for kids to have allowances."

George came around and pulled a chair over to the desk, where she was working. He was glad for the difference in country…it covered up a whole lot of things he didn't know. "I don't understand, honestly. I'm his father…whatever he needs, I can take care of. I _want_ to take care of."

Michelle gave him a little smile. "Kids like to have independence, George. And a sense of responsibility. It's not such a bad thing, is it? Suppose, maybe, he wants to save up to buy a playstation? Rather than ask you to spring $200, he wants to work towards it himself. That's a good thing, really." She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "I take it you never had an allowance?"

"With seven kids, my parents would have been bankrupt." He admitted. "If we needed something, it was taken care of. If we wanted something beyond, we'd ask. And often the answer was no." Of course there hadn't been extra cash floating around. When his parents had been able to give them some small treat, it was something to be prized.

Hm. Maybe he was on to something here…getting something special had meant so much to him because he knew how hard it was for his parents to do that. But money was no object for him with Alf, so maybe his just providing things to him wasn't as meaningful, in a way.

"I can practically hear the gears in your brain turning, George." She quipped.

"I think you might be right." He said, slowly. He ran his fingers over his forehead. "When my brother and I got older we took on odd jobs for a few extra…dollars. This isn't that different, I guess." He shrugged. "Can I ask how much is usual?"

"Jimmy gives Tony $10 a week for his chores. Says his father thinks it's highway robbery, but that a kid out to earn at least enough to take himself out to the movies." She leaned back. "And your computer is all better, by the way. You need to watch emails with attachments."

"I'll remember." He said, rising with her. "Coffee?"

"You're the only Brit I've ever seen not enamored about tea." She teased. "And yes, thank you."

George turned to his favorite machine in the house. "Drank nothing but tea until I was eighteen. Then my brother and I moved out of the house…we had started this business at one point. Kept odd hours at first. Coffee first became a blessing, then a need, and now…pure desire." He inhaled the fragrant brew deeply."

She was looking at him carefully. "Your twin brother who died?"

"Fred." He said the name without pain. "Yes."

"Ah. Alfred. I get it."

Not entirely you don't, he thought.

"When did you start writing?" She asked, sitting back in the chair.

"After Fred died. Everything changed then." True, as far as truth went in his life right now.

"I give you points for courage, George…" She accepted the coffee and added milk. "It sounds like you just went ahead and changed your life…hell, I guess you've done it twice. Me, I'm still trying."

He sat down beside her. "Michelle…" He thought it out carefully. Sometimes it was hard to remember to be who he was _supposed_ to be, instead of being who he was. "I think there's a difference between changing your life and running away. When Fred died…I was, in a way, running away." It was true…he hadn't left the store, or written books, but he had shut down and disengaged. There had never been a man less THERE than George had been. "This time…well, let's just say that there are reasons that I'm in America beyond Katie's death. A lot has to do with Alfred. But you know…my oldest brother once told me that I couldn't run away from myself."

"And you think that's what I've been doing?" She ran a finger around the rim of her cup. "Maybe." She seemed to be weighing her words carefully. "Truth is, George, when I made a decision to be with Anthony, I made a decision to give up a lot. A lot of myself, of who I was. Mind, there were things about myself that I didn't care about giving up, but still…" She smiled. "We were together for four years….from when we met right after I graduated from college until he died. I never looked back. But since he's been gone…I'm lost."

"You're not sure who you are anymore." George said, feeling her words in his heart. "Because you forgot who you were without him."

"Yeah." Their eyes met, and George took her hand. The seconds went by, and she roused herself. "I'd better get going. School night."

"Right." He said. Part of him wanted to scream out-loud: _I don't have a wife. I have never HAD wife, living or dead. I'm not in mourning!_

_Don't go!_

He walked her to the door. "Thanks for the advice about Alfred. It's not always easy, being a father."

"A single one at that." She grasped his arm for a moment. "But you're a good one, George. Don't sweat the occasional bump in the road." And quickly, she reached up and kissed him on the cheek, before she darted into the night.

He was still staring out after her, long after she'd disappeared into the inky blackness, when Alf came up next to him. "You like her, don't you?" Alf asked, gently.

"I do." He felt an almost giddy surprise welling up in him. "And it's been a long time since I liked anybody…like that, I mean." He put his hand on Alf's shoulder. "Does that bother you?"

"Heck, no." Alf nudged him. "I like her too…although _not like that_." He teased.

"Well, I think it's supposed to bother you…what with my wife being six months dead." George scowled in frustration, and turned back with Alf towards the living room.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess." Alf scratched his head. "I really miss my Mum sometimes…" He admitted softly. "But I don't even think of the two of you together at all, so it's hard for me to think that I should be upset if you dated somebody."

George turned to him, and took his hand, pulling him down to the sofa. "You don't talk about your Mum much, Alf." George looked Alfred over carefully. "It's okay if you do, you know."

"I know." Alf sighed. "It's the only time I really miss my muggle life back home, you know? Not that I want to go back, ever…" He said quickly. "Just…you never knew the Mum I knew. My little sister did. I just wish, sometimes, that I could talk to Liv." He shrugged.

"Sorry." George let Alf lean against him, and stroked his hand through his hair. "We could do it, if we were back home, but not from here."

"I know." He stayed still for a moment, barely seeming to breathe. Then: "Mum used to do that too…run her fingers through my hair like that." He smiled into space. "Said I had the most beautiful hair in the world. I thought she was daft."

"Ha, clearly a woman of excellent taste!" George thought fondly of Katie Bell, of having had a crush on her once, before giving way to his brother's deeper love for her. How she was always so happy to be around the Weasleys, how they made her so much happier than her own family. It must have been a great comfort to her, to see so much of Fred in Alf.

"I suppose you'll think I'm trying to pull a fast one on you if I take now to bring up that allowance thing again?" Alf asked, cocking his head up to look at him.

George chuckled. "Does ten dollars sound fair, in return for taking out the garbage, and doing the dishes nightly?"

Alf sat up, eyes wide. "Serious? I didn't think you'd go for it at all, after earlier."

George sighed. "Michelle explained a few things to me, I guess. It's not really a wizard custom, you see…parents are expected to provide for their children."

"Yeah, but…" Alf hesitated. "I mean…"

"Alfred, are you plotting something?" George felt a grin rise up that he couldn't suppress.

"Um…maybe?" He tried, looking at George almost innocently.

"Is it illegal?"

"No."

"Immoral?"

"Decidedly not."

"Going to get you kicked out of school?"

"Never."

George smiled in full then. "Alright, I won't ask. Just promise me, Alf, that if you ever really seriously need help, you will ALWAYS come to me, okay? I don't want you scrimping and saving to pay off some bloated bully at school."

"As if I would!" Alf scoffed. "I'd let myself get beat up first."

George shook his head. "I'd rather not that either."

Alf got up, but he took one last look at George from the doorway. "I tell you everything, you know." He said very seriously. "I figure if you didn't kill me for blowing up the store, I'm pretty safe."

George tossed a sofa pillow at him, and Alf ducked. "G'night, Dad."

"Night, Alf."

But George couldn't help but wonder…what exactly was Alf up to?

WWWWWWW

Halloween that year was on a Friday. They had a soccer game, and then Alf was sleeping over the Castelli's for a party. George had agreed with a smile to the plan, though it had gutted him a bit; Michelle he knew had plans and Halloween was not a time he'd particularly wished to be alone. But he was not about to let Alf see that, so it was a determined grin that he'd gone to the match.

The Salem Wizards were on a winning streak, now 7-3. George had been surprised at how he'd taken to coaching the kids. He would take breaks from his writing and learn the fundamentals of the game, but really what the kids needed was somebody to keep them on point, and be encouraging.

"Matty" turned out to be Mathilda Kasinski, who played for U-Mass. She was about 5-4 and 100 pounds of explosive energy with the children, and ungodly skill. George felt like he learned as much from her as the kids did. There wasn't a practice that didn't end in laugher, and no game that ended in tears…the two losses George and Jimmy had made sure were not seen as disheartening, but learning experiences.

"You can't tell me…" Jimmy said just after the game, "That you didn't play SOME sports, George. You understand coaching too well."

George had blushed, but with a shrug said, "Well, I messed around making up my own games with my brother."

Tonight's win had been brilliant. Last year's state champions, the Ludlow Lightning, were visiting, and they were a notorious defensive juggernaut. They were organized, well-drilled, and way above the skill level of the Wizards. But they couldn't score on Alf. George was amazed…the kid actually seemed to have stepped up his game. He kept them at 0-0, with twenty-three official kills.

And then, with seconds to go, Jimmy's son Tony, making a quick little deke play that Matty had been working on with him, just dribbled one past the Ludlow goalie and the field had erupted with cheers. Alf may have been the first one to sprint down the field and tackle Tony when the whistle blew. Matty had hugged him and Jimmy was jumping up and down like a fool.

Suddenly, the opposing team's coach was up to them. The guy was about 5-3 and built like Santa Claus…big white beard and blue eyes, and the belly like jelly. He introduced himself as Mayers.

"The goalie's your son, isn't he?" The man asked, after shaking George's hand.

"He is." George said, beaming from ear to ear.

"Hell of a player you've got there. I tip my hat to you, Sir…he's got a bright future ahead of him" The coach said, with a deep grin. "Did I hear right that you pulled him from O'Malley's team?"

George shook his head, laughing lightly. "I cannot believe how words gets around here."

"Well, good on you. I don't say that because O'Malley's been my toughest competitor before. But I've always thought that winning didn't preclude having fun." He extended his hand to Jimmy next. "Castelli." Mayers raised his eyebrows. "I mean this sincerely…I hope we meet in the finals."

Jimmy turned bright red. "Got to get past the Stingers first." He said, quickly.

"Like I said…I hope you do. You're doing good stuff here. Keep it up!" Mayers ambled off, and George turned to look at Jimmy, who was agape and silent.

"Earth to Jimmy…" George teased. "Hello?" 

"Do you know that man is practically a legend, George?" Castelli whispered. "What just happened?"

"The legend congratulated the coach of the team that beat him…showing as much class as a legend ought to have." George nudged him, as they were about to be gang tackled by two boys. "Argh…one of these is mine, Jimmy…I think I might see a bit of red hair on this one, buried under the dirt!"

It was true…the field was rather muddy and Alf and Tony mainly resembled mud-bombs.

"Dad…" Alf grinned up at him. "Mrs. Castelli's going to pick us up right from here… that okay with you?"

George fought not to show the gut-wrenching thought of spending this holiday alone. "Just let her know I'm not liable for the state of her bath towels!" He managed to tease, as both boys ran for the Castelli's car.

It was Jimmy who saved him. "Well, since the wife has got the boys corralled, George…" Jimmy said. "How about we grab a beer down at the Brew Haus? Now that baseball season is over, we might just be able to get a seat!"

The evening just picked up, George thought. "I'm there!"

Three hours later, George and Jimmy were enjoying their third pitcher of something called Sam Adams, which was not at all bad, though certainly not as fine as some of the ale the Leaky Cauldron offered, and watching some college football—_American_ football—game in the background. George had feared that with the Red Sox season over, he'd have to pick up a new sport, but he quickly learned two things: one, the way baseball was in this town, the season was never really over, and two, he got more mileage, as an Englishmen, by being stupid about football than he did by learning it.

"I can't believe you threw yourself into baseball the way you did, George." Jimmy shook his head, right after George had corrected a neighbor who was insisting that Fenway Park be torn down.

"Mythology writer, remember?" George stuck to his bio. "Is there _any_ better American mythology than baseball?"

"Point." Jimmy said. A cheer rose from the bar when the local team scored.

"Was that seven or eight points?" George asked, not even having to pretend to be confused.

Jimmy laughed at him. "Six, until they either kick it or go for two." He explained. Privately George thought the English had a right to be smug about their football as superior; only in America could they dare to usurp the name for a sport that seemed to be mainly played with the hands.

"Urp." George felt the beer come back on him a bit. "Been a while since I had a night out like this, Jimmy."

"Me too." The other man, who was about five or six years older than him, pulled out the tiny phone that he carried and looked at a message coming in. "Bless her wonderful soul, Judy just told me to stay out as long as we want, she'd drive us home."

"An excellent woman!" George concurred. He couldn't conceive of driving right now…besides, his car was at the field.

The game went to commercial, and Jimmy called in an order for buffalo wings, which apparently were made out of chicken. George made a mental note to ask Alf for an explanation.

"So…" Jimmy looked over to him after the waitress left. "Michelle's been popping around your place quite a bit, eh?"

"Usually twice a week. I like to cook, and I always make enough for a small army, so…" George shrugged, in seeming nonchalance. In reality, he didn't feel anything close to nonchalant.

He wanted, desperately, to ask about her dead fiancé; had she dated at all since then? Was she looking to? Just how _in _love had they been? Lord knows, he got no clues from her…it was just that they had an understanding of sorts when they were together. They were both, in their own ways, damaged people, finding their was about in the world that sometimes seemed to have left them behind.

Seeing that Jimmy was watching him closely, George continued. "It isn't anything but friendship, Jimmy…we have a lot in common. And it's good to have an adult around to talk to, sometimes."

"Right." Jimmy sipped his beer carefully. "I know you just lost your wife. It's been rather longer for her, but…just both of you, be careful, eh? I don't want to see either of you hurting each other."

George decided to tackle it head on. "9/11…right?"

Jimmy was startled. "Yes. Did she _tell_ you that? Because I haven't been able to get her to talk about it for seven years."

"Not exactly." George sighed. "The first time she popped around was on the anniversary date. At the end of the night I put two and two together."

"DON'T ask her about it." Jimmy gave a wry laugh. "For reasons I will never understand, she seems to think she could have saved him."

George was startled. "Could she have?"

Jimmy shook his head. "It's nuts. Anthony was a firefighter, and damned proud of it. He went up into those towers that day as soon as he could trying to save lives. Nothing would have kept him from it. She's crazy."

The game came back on, but George was mulling over what he'd learned, little though it was. He knew, didn't he, what it was like to blame yourself for a loved one's death. Even if logic and everyone you know tells you there wasn't a damned thing you could do.

Another round of beer was downed, and George felt like the room was tilting slightly. How could he have ever missed the beer at the Leaky Cauldron?

Jimmy seemed to be feeling it, too. "I sure wouldn't even want to consider trying to drive tonight." He drained the last of his pint.

"Not even on a broom." George said without thinking, and then froze.

Fortunately, Jimmy thought that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Broom! It's Halloween! I get it…man, that's hysterical, George…" He grabbed his jacket, teetering. "Man, George Weatherby is one funny guy!"

_Enough beer for tonight I think._ George followed Jimmy out to his lovely, understanding wife, feeling the ground rise and fall beneath him. He paused for but a moment to look up at the moon, and thought about his family. _Brooms…if you only knew, Jimmy…if you only knew!_


	5. Ch 5, November, 2008

November came, cold and blustery. George was anticipating his first ever American Thanksgiving with glee…Charlie, he who was single and childless, and who would not be missed from Romania, would be coming in for the long weekend, to see how everything was going. Hermione and Draco were working diligently to get the proportions right on the antidote, but seemed to be missing some key ingredient.

George was over Michelle's helping her rake leaves when Alf came home; he and some of his teammates had gone with Jimmy to the high-school soccer game. "Hey, kiddo…grab a rake…these trees are shedding leaves worse than that great brute of a dog sheds hair!"

"Ha…at least I can vacuum up after Rufus…" Michelle joked. George didn't laugh, though. Alf had dutifully picked up a rake, but his face was troubled and he was preoccupied.

"Alf?" He asked, gently, touching the boy's shoulder. The look he got back frankly scared him; Alf's eyes were wide and worried. Michelle didn't miss it either.

"You know what, I'm going to pop in the house and get us some cider…" She started, but to George's surprise Alf stopped her.

"Don't go. I think maybe you can help." His voice was low and shaken. Suddenly he tossed the rake aside and sat down on the ground, knees drawn up to his chin and arms wrapped around himself. George immediately followed suit on one side, with Michelle on the other.

Alf glanced first at George, and then over at Michelle. "I'm worried." He said quietly. "About Mike O'Malley."

Michelle's surprise was momentary, and then faded into understanding. George was a little more thrown by the statement. "I wasn't aware that you were still friends with Mike?" He asked, gently.

"I'm not…not because I don't want to be. I mean, Mike is an okay guy. But his Dad has pretty much ordered him not to even talk to me." Alf shrugged. "I have friends enough, that wasn't such a big deal for me…but the better our soccer team does, the more withdrawn Mike has become. He and the other kids on the Stingers have all been kind of jerks, but Mike, when he's not around them, looks almost like he's fading away. I think his Dad…" Alf paused. "Really, I don't KNOW anything."

George was at a loss. In the wizarding world there weren't really any repercussions from what you would call abuse. Everything was bound up in family, and it was expected that if a parent behaved outside the bounds of decency, that the family would step in. He was fairly certain that if his family ever thought he was endangering Alf, they'd take action. But he had no clue how the muggle world worked.

Michelle looked grave. "Alf, have you ever seen any signs…any, whatsoever, that Mike's dad has hit him? Any strange bruises? Hear him make any comments about anything?"

Alf watched her carefully. "Noooo…and I'm not sure he _is_ hitting him. I mean, Mike said once that his father would back-hand him if he talked back, and the day Dad pulled me from the team he slapped him, but that's not really what you mean, is it?"

"No…it would need to be more than that." She ran her hand over her forehead, and George looked at her for explanation. "I've been worried about Mike for a long time too, Alf…since before you two moved in." Michelle nodded behind her. "Funny thing, this cul-de-sac; my house is between the two of you, but the way the property is shaped he's almost right across from your front door. So you don't hear what I hear."

George rubbed Alf's back to calm him, before asking her, "What is it that you _do_ hear?"

"Yelling…the most heinous verbal abuse I've ever witnessed. He used to yell at his wife, too…calling her all sorts of names. But he's worse with Mike. The things he says to that boy have left _me_ cowering under the table." She sighed. "Yesterday he screamed for half an hour that Mike was an embarrassment to the family name, a waste of money and time and effort who would never amount to anything."

Bile rose in George's throat. "What about Mike's Mum? The kid is ten years old!"

Michelle grimaced. "When she left him, she didn't much look back. Well, O'Malley is a lawyer, and somehow he must have pulled some strings to get custody." She shrugged. "I've been praying every day to hear that man hit him…"

Alf gaped, and George blinked at her. "You what?"

"Sick, I know…" Michelle nodded. "But if he actually smacked him around, I could call children's services. Actually, as his teacher I have an _obligation_ to call children's services. But bruises you can see; bruises can call for action. What that man is doing to his son, I can't prove in a court of law." She looked questioningly at Alf. "What happened today?"

Alf sighed. "At the soccer game…there were a bunch of us kicking the ball around. Mike and a few of the other Stingers as well. We were laughing. Then his dad came…and just ripped him to shreds. Didn't say a word to anyone else, but totally berated Mike for about ten minutes. Called him useless, called him a loser, said that he was weak for hanging around with kids from the enemy...and then he grounded him to the end of the school year."

"For playing soccer?" George felt his voice raise up in indignation.

Michelle squeezed his arm. "George…don't even try to understand him. Bullies are like that, and that man is the worst I've ever seen." She sighed. "I just wish I knew what I could do."

They were silent for a few moments, before Rufus, perhaps sensing the situation, decided the mood needed to be broken. Spotting a squirrel, he charged after it…right over Michelle, George and Alf, and right through the pile of leaves they'd just finished assembling.

"RUFUS YOU DUMB ANIMAL!" Michelle yelled, laughing. The dog wuffed and came up to her, leaping with both paws and pushing her over, before turning to try to lick Alf to death.

"Ugh…Dad!" Alf begged for help, but George was laughing too hard.

Finally, the mighty mutt corralled, the three of them picked themselves up and decided, without words, to ignore the leaves for the moment and head for that cider. Alf leaned in against George as they walked into Michelle's house, and George squeezed him. "We'll keep an eye out for Mike, Alf." He said. "That's all we can do. You just need to keep talking to us, okay?"

"'kay." He said, with a sigh, and they both looked together at the O'Malley house, now quiet…on the outside.

WWWWWWWWW

By the Wednesday before the holiday, George was beside himself. Charlie had arrived, and with the same aplomb that stood him in fine stead against dragons, he was completely unfazed by muggle life. George, meanwhile, was determined to tackle a turkey and all the traditional American trimmings, to Charlie's amusement. Alf, however, was totally supportive of him, and had been more than a willing guinea pig with George's test dishes as the holiday approached.

But none of that seemed to matter on Wednesday. That afternoon was the game…the big game. The one for the regional championships. The one against O'Malley and the Salem Stingers. The only one, as far as George was concerned, that mattered.

"Is this O'Malley that bad?" Charlie asked, as the group headed over to the field.

Michelle and George turned to glare at him, and he shut up.

The only person not affected in any way was Alf himself. He'd allowed exactly six goals over eighteen games, as the team went to a 13-3-2 record. The Stingers were responsible for one of the loses, a vicious 1-0 game which saw them come at the Wizards hard and dirty. But that had been earlier in the year; the boys now were different; more confident and stronger. They no longer believed that O'Malley was the invincible man.

Charlie and Michelle went up into the stands, while George went with Jimmy to shake O'Malley's hand.

"Weatherby. Castelli." O'Malley sneared. "Well, you've ridden one good player into success, I see." O'Malley glared over at Alf.

"It's a team sport." Castelli glared. "And Alf appreciates that more than anyone."

So set the tone of the game, right from the get-go.

And so it went. Hard played. Hard fought. Not so many shots on goal for the Stingers, and if it got near Alf he saved it. NO shots on goal for the Wizards, who seemed to be getting physically beat up whenever they got the ball out of their end.

The second half was ticking away when suddenly Mike O'Malley broke away. It was going to be a one on one shot, and Mike was good…even if his father would probably die before telling the boy that. But he led the league in shots, and was bearing down on Alf.

Alf was not afraid. George could tell. He was excited. Anxious to have a chance to make the big play. Anticipating Mike's every move.

Mike decoyed Alf, and made the neatest shot George had ever seen, in the opposite direction from where he'd been running, backwards towards the upper corner of the net. It had the trajectory, and George felt his heart sink a little…no way could Alf get this.

A blur of red hair. Fingertips outstretched as Alf launched himself full speed to the ball. And just…just…just like that, he tipped it, far enough away to deflect out of bounds.

A cheer rose up in George's throat. And froze there.

Alf's momentum carried him. His head smashed into the post. There was a sickening thud.

Alfred collapsed to the ground.

He didn't get up.

WWWWWWWWW

The first few seconds were a lifetime. Then pandemonium ensued. George, close to throwing up, charged the field. He didn't give a damn if time had been called or not…he had to get to his boy.

Someone was pulling him away before he could touch Alf…something about a neck brace and a back board. Something about paralysis and spinal injuries. Jimmy fought to hold him, while in the background O'Malley berated the ref for stopping the game.

_Mum…George thought. I need Mum…or Fleur. Lord, I just need any wizard with healing skills…they can fix him…they can…not these muggles…dear God, what are they putting around his neck?_

"George!" Charlie was beside him, and Jimmy gladly handed him over to his older, burlier brother. Charlie pulled him a few feet away and yelled again, for George could not keep his eyes off of Alfred's pale, pale face and unmoving body.

"GEORGE!" He slapped him lightly, and George managed to focus.

"Charlie…" His voice was agonized.

"I'm going to duck around the corner." Charlie spoke quiet and insistently. "And apparate back to England for Fleur. Unless you have contacts in the wizarding community here?"

George shook his head frantically. "No, no…they contact me…I don't even know…"

"Shhh." Charlie hugged him fiercely, whispering into his good ear. "Fleur or Mum can fix it…where will they take him?"

"Salem General." George stammered out.

"Right. Hang on, George…hang on. We'll fix this." Charlie saw Michelle approaching and handed George off to her, even as paramedics loaded Alf into the ambulance.

"I'll take you there, George." She looked up at him, her own face pale and tears in her eyes. "We'll take care of him, we will."

George hugged her tight, then looked at the muggle conveyance. "Can't I go with him?" His eyes widened at the sight of some rubber bag. "What are they doing?"

"Making sure he has air, and no…they need room to work. Come with me, George…" She looked away for Charlie. "Where did your brother go?"

"Ah…to tell my family what happened…and…and I have a friend who's in tow…who's sort of a doctor…he's going to get her." George could barely manage to keep up, or care about, his cover.

"The doctors at General are the best…but alright." She could see how frantic he was becoming, and it was clear that she wanted nothing more than to calm him down. "C'mon, George."

WWWWWWW

Two hours later. Doctors came and went and shook their heads. They put him in a tube to take pictures of his spine. The principle Doctor, Dr. Fanchea, was particularly bleak.

"Lots of swelling…we may have to open up his skull if it doesn't go down. And that looks like a break on the third vertebra…"

George felt a part of himself dying while he processed everything. It seemed that this doctor was telling him that IF Alf lived, he'd be in a wheelchair. Or worse.

Being a squib suddenly didn't seem like the worst thing in the world, now.

And where the hell was Charlie?

They had given Alf drugs for the swelling. A tube was breathing for him. He looked so tiny and lost in that big white bed. And George couldn't move, couldn't do anything but sit beside him and hold his hand, with tears silently coursing down his face.

"How is he?" A voice asked. Jimmy.

George couldn't speak. "Not good." Michelle, who was pacing the room nervously, came to him.

"God." George could hear that Jimmy was crying too, but he couldn't turn. Couldn't do anything but count each breath and pray there would be another, until Charlie got here.

Jimmy was by him now, the soccer ball in his hand. "Game ball, George." Jimmy said, sounding helpless. "For Alf. Players voted it. We scored on a penalty kick in overtime…" Jimmy bit back a sob. "Alf would have been so proud…little Billy Garcia did it; Alf was working so hard with him."

George found a voice. "He'll be happy to hear it…" He said, hoarsely. "When he wakes up."

"Of course…of course." And close to losing it, Jimmy put the ball down and darted out of the room.

Michelle came beside him now, and rubbed his back gently. Hours ago he'd have killed for even that innocent touch from her. Now he could barely register it happening. "It'll be alright, George…it will. I promise." Her voice was low and calming.

As if she could promise that. As if she could do anything about it. Alf was dying right in front of his eyes far away from the only people who could stop it. He closed his eyes and wanted to die with him as well.

WWWWWW

George fell into dreams, not the pleasant one's he'd become used to. These were heavy, painful dreams. In his mind he saw Fred embracing Alf, saw Fred pick him up and turn and look reproachfully at George for his failure. Then Fred turned his back on him; Fred carried Alf away. Fred took his life, his hope, his future from him.

"I'm sorry, don't go, don't go…I didn't mean to!" George begged. He started crying. "Please…Fred…FRED!"

WWWWWWWW

George snapped awake, crying "Fred!" in a low voice. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, thick as if with medicine. For a second, he couldn't remember why he was sleeping so uncomfortably in a crappy chair, or having such horrid dreams.

Memory rushed at him like that soccer ball had. He bolted upright.

"Hold hard there, little brother." Charlie soothed. Fleur was beside him.

"Fleur…you have to…you have to…"

"Dad." A small, drowsy voice said from the bed. "I'm sorry."

George felt all the blood rush from his body, and back again within seconds; vertigo nearly overcame him. Charlie brought the chair back to under him, even as George leaned disbelievingly into the bed.

"Alf! Oh, Alf!" He held on to a sob, grasping his son's hand; to his joy Alf gave him a creditably strong squeeze back. "My son, my son." He whimpered, kissing his pale forehead tenderly. The brace was gone, the tubes were gone, and his son was with him.

"I heard somebody was awake." George turned his wet face to Michelle. She came to him, stroking his cheek to wipe the tears away.

"Sorry…sorry…" Alf was rambling. "Please don't be mad, Dad…please…it wasn't me!"

George turned immediately back to Alfred. "I'm not mad, Alf…promise I'm not mad." He said, trying to be as soothing as he could. "You didn't do anything wrong!"

"Fireworks." Alf managed to open his eyes and looked very pleadingly at George. "I saw fireworks, Dad, big exploding fireworks….but I didn't do it, I didn't, I promise!"

George tried hard not to laugh. "Alfred, those fireworks were in your head." He stroked the boy's hair back, in the gesture he knew he found comforting. "You hit your head hard on the post…knocked yourself right out. Those FIREWORKS were your brain exploding in your skull, silly child. And I am as not mad as not mad can get."

"Oh." Alf visibly relaxed, squeezing George's hand again. Then one eye propped open. "Did we win?"

That laughter George let escape him, as did Charlie, Fleur and Michelle. "We did, kiddo. We did."

He relaxed as Alf eased into a more natural looking sleep, although his whole body was shaking. Michelle pressed water into his hand.

Dr. Fanchea was just outside the bed. "This makes NO SENSE, nurse. I have here the MRI's…the boy had a spinal column fracture and severe swelling. He cannot be awake and moving!"

Michelle watched George's face, and she grabbed him, suddenly, pulling him out of the room.

"Before you hurt him." She said, sensing that George was _this close_ to killing that idiot Doctor. "Alf doesn't need any scenes, George. However miraculously he recovered, he's still got a whomping headache."

"Right." Without saying anything further about the Doctor, George pulled Michelle into his arms. "I thought I lost him…I couldn't have lost him, Shell…couldn't have lived after that."

"I know." She returned the hug, then again, she pulled away. Why was she always pulling away?

"I'm going to go call Jimmy…and a few others. They ought to know he's going to be okay." She held his hand. "I will be back, George."

With a heavy sigh, George returned to the room, just in time to see Fleur confound both the Doctor and the Nurse, while Charlie manipulated that screen print they had been holding. Soon both muggle medicos were walking out, talking about how good it was to see Alf doing well.

As soon as they were gone, George turned to Fleur and gave her an enormous hug. "Thank you, thank you so _very_ much."

"Oh, dear George…" She kissed his cheek. "But it is not me you have to thank, save for altering the minds of these idiots. Alf was awake when I got here."

George was startled…he had been sure that Fleur had saved him. "But…I don't understand?"

"That makes two of us, mate." Charlie shrugged. "We had a spot of difficulty getting Fleur away without suspicion, and then apparating turned out to be no easy thing either. I was scared to death at what we'd find."

"So Alf…healed naturally?" George's mouth fell open.

"No, indeed." Fleur shook her golden locks out. "I wasn't here, but I can scan for magical healing. That is a wand cure the boy had, and as neat work as I'd ever seen. His neck and spine, it is like nothing ever happened; nor anything worse than a concussion. I am not sure I could have done so well."

"Oh…but then who…" George turned and the evening news caught his eye. The minister of magic, he was startled to see, was on the television set…the man held a nominal job in muggle government and was occasionally interviewed. "They said they'd be watching. I guess they were."

"Indeed." Fleur said. "I must go back, then…all are so worried. But it is well, quite well; I will tell them this." She kissed his cheek. "It is, what Americans say, a happy Thanksgiving indeed, George."

Indeed.

WWWWWWW

Thanksgiving did happen…on Saturday instead of Thursday and with Alf propped up in his bed upstairs, sleeping. George went ahead and cooked the Turkey and trimmings as planned, and Charlie certainly did it justice. Michelle was also there, and George was relieved to see Charlie able to completely act the muggle in her presence.

George himself still felt distracted and unsettled. Alf was doing well, just fine really, but seeing those dark circles under his eyes and watching him sleep so much made George unable to sleep at all. Michelle was really quite soothing. "It's a concussion…they are very tiring as they heal. It's all quite normal."

He and Charlie had exchanged glances when she went to take plates to the sink, as she continued, "Really, its very lucky it wasn't worse."

Luck, George knew, had nothing to do with it. He only wished somebody from the American ministry would contact him, so he could thank the healer in person. But he guessed that under cover meant exactly that.

"I better let Rufus out…" Michelle noticed the dog whining at the door. "I can't believe you gave him all those scraps!"

George grinned at her as she went out with the giant mutt, who clearly wanted to work off some turkey. He saw a tennis ball ark towards the fence, and the dog raced towards it, coming up short, skidding, rolling over, and then picking up the ball and running back.

Charlie and George shared a laugh; George began running water in the sink to start the dishes.

"Man, I always wished we'd had a dog." Charlie chuckled.

"Me, too. But could you have imagined the commotion, with the seven of us and something like THAT!" George handed Charlie a dish towel. "Mum would have gone bonkers."

"Personally, I'd like to see him versus Crookshanks!" Charlie had always had a love/hate relationship with Hermione's cat, though he was now quite elderly. "What do you think the outcome would be?"

"Crookshanks would have Rufus cowering under the table in about thirty seconds, while he finished off all his food." George had seen the orange beast in action enough to know. "Never underestimate old puff ball."

"Well, he knew his way around a RAT right enough, didn't he." Charlie concurred. He looked about at the mounds of slop. "I could just fix this with a flick of my wrist and we could go out and join them?"

"Oh, right…and have her wondering how a pile of dishes got magically done…" George paused as he realized what he said, and Charlie roared.

"Lord, and you were _worried _about passing as a muggle. You've bloody well forgotten you're a wizard at all."

"Hush." George blushed, though, thinking Charlie wasn't far wrong. "And thank heavens I am, or I don't want to imagine what would be happening to Alf right now."

"Right. Best of both worlds." Charlie nudged him gently. "I can finish these…go out on and join her. Go on…" He repeated, when George hesitated. "I'm not blind, little brother. Go, have a little fun. She's probably wondering why you're not out there already…I bet she's expecting you."

George brightened. "You really think…"

"Hell, yes. GO!" He shoved him gently towards the door. "I will finish these up and then run a cup of that broth up to my nephew, keep an eye on him." Charlie watched as George scooped up a jacket and went to the back yard, much to the delight of the energetic Rufus and the laughter of Michelle at some antic of George's.

"You deserve this, little brother." Charlie said, with his eyes misting over slightly. "Fred would have liked her a lot."

WWWWWWWW

Alf turned his head listlessly on his pillow, slightly hungry and slightly nauseous at the same time. He was hating this…had always hated being sick…but at the same time he couldn't so much as move without feeling like he was on a sail boat in a hurricane. He felt like whining, but he couldn't whine, either.

Dad was great…patient and ever present, barely leaving his side at night. Alf rather thought his injury was more serious than let on, because of how worried George seemed to still be; at times it was like he counted each breath Alf took.

"Hey, kid." His uncle Charlie entered, a bowl of broth before him. "I know you're head feels a puddle right now, and your stomach is no doubt a mess, but this ought to go down right enough."

"Thanks." Alf tried to sit up and felt the room swim. "Ugh."

"Hold on there…" Charlie, with surprising gentleness for so burly a man, and propped him up on his pillows. "There you go…I've had my share of concussions myself."

Alf managed a smile at him. "Dragons." He said. He'd learned the past couple of days to keep all speech short and to the point. He frowned then as Charlie raised the spoon to feed him.

"Hey, I know it sucks…but if you try feeding yourself you'll slop all over the bed, end up smelling like turkey soup." Charlie pointed out.

With a sigh, Alf tacitly acknowledged that to be true by accepting the spoonful of broth.. He didn't much care for being so helpless…but the truth was, he was. Charlie made it easier by not dwelling on it or making any fuss…he spoke calmly and easily, as if spoon feeding a ten year old boy was the most natural thing in the world.

Charlie was the Uncle he knew the least well. Alf knew he worked with Dragons in Romania; he was perhaps the Weasley wild-card, burly and athletic. He had more freckles than anybody else, but he exuded this sort of charm that even as they'd been checking out of the hospital had attracted the attention of every nurse on duty. His hands were calloused…for everyone else's ears that was from his work in construction; Alf knew it was from more hazardous sources.

"So…nephew…" Charlie set the bowl aside. "Care to tell me about this fireworks incident that you were rambling about?"

Alf's face flushed red…he couldn't believe he'd said that. He didn't even remember seeing something resembling fireworks, although George assured him that was a perfectly understandable reaction. In fact, the last thing he remembered was walking to the field with Dad and Michelle. Hesitatingly, not sure if Charlie would be angry with him, he stuttered out the sorry tale of his Weas-Works debacle.

Far from angry, Charlie looked like he thought it was the best joke he'd ever heard. "Oh, if that isn't priceless…and it's so totally something your Dad would have done when he was a kid, although I'm sure he didn't see it that way."

Alf just stared at him for a second, and then it was Charlie's turn to blush. "Blimey, Alf…guess that came out badly…I meant George of course, not your dad…"

Alf gave him a sleepy grin. "Th's okay, Uncle Charlie. I think of him as my Dad pretty much now. Just surprised…most people want so hard for me to be Fred…"

"Ah, of course." Charlie patted his shoulder gently. "Losing Fred threw the family for quite a loop, Alf. Nobody more than George. But I dunno…I'm guessing things might have been bumpy for you two at first, finding your place with each other. Maybe because I've mostly seen you here…and how you are together, I've just accepted you as you are."

Alf was grateful that Charlie could see that. Maybe if he got his magic and they went back to England, the rest of the family would accept it then, too. "Honestly…things really were never bumpy…we go together…we belong, he says…" Alf chewed his lip. "Would he really have done something like that? The fireworks, I mean."

Charlie chuckled. "Oh, George had a much longer fuse than Fred did…always. Fred's temper was quick and surfaced and died quickly. George, when something has him stewing…like you'd no doubt been stewing…holds back his anger for a long, long time…but when the explosion comes…well, you think those fireworks were something?" Charlie leaned forward. "Did your Dad ever tell you about the dungbomb and Fudge's car?"

Alf's eyes lit up in anticipation. He'd been so bored, not able to read, not able to move, and feeling like he'd slept enough for a thousand lifetimes but still tired. So he sat back, and let Charlie regale him of his twin fathers' most notorious exploits, and fell asleep dreaming of how they must have been as boys.

WWWWWWWWWW

Rufus came running right up to George the minute he was outside; George wrestled away the slobber-covered tennis ball and sent it in a high arc towards the fence, and the dog charged for it. Michelle laughed and came beside him, rubbing her arms.

"Weather's turned, for good now, I think." She commented.

George didn't say anything, just removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She glanced at him in surprise, but accepted the gesture. Pleased with that much, he moved closer to her, and draped his arm around her shoulders; without a word back at him, she leaned against his chest, accepting the hug.

And in that moment, it seemed to George that everything was right with the world.


	6. Ch 6, December, 2008, I

Alf had recovered remarkably quickly, in a way that naturally astounded muggle authorities. George had recovered as well, from the shocks of that week, and from the gut-wrenching fear that seeing Alf so tiny and helpless had left him with. Only he and Michelle were still a question. After that perfect moment on their "Thanksgiving", she had seemed to shy away from him a bit; indeed she had not stopped in for more than a week.

But it was December, and the month was in fine mid-winter form, with a three inch dusting of snow covering the ground, crunching beneath his feet as he went to the mailbox. Flurries were still falling now, wandering on the gentle breeze.

For a moment, George stood still and drew the icy air into his lungs, feeling his life in him by the stinging needles that made his blood tingle. He drifted into his past; into a day at Hogwarts when he and Fred had spelled snow-balls to bounce off of Professor Quirrell's turban. He heard Fred's giggle, and felt the icy scramble they made when Professor McGonagle had caught them. She'd scolded them and assigned them detention…and…

And after professor Quirrell departed, she'd quietly scooped up a handful of snow herself, and before Fred and George knew what was happening, she'd pelted them…the ball of ice bouncing off George's head into Fred's neck.. They had stood, stunned speechless, while a chuckling McGonnagal walked away muttering, "Still got it."

He was startled from his daydream by two giant paws on his side, as Rufus rose to greet him. "Down, boy!" He laughed, roughing the dog's fur vigorously. Michelle was on the other end of the lead.

"I'd say a penny for your thoughts, George Weatherby." She said, tugging the dog back to the ground. "But I suspect I know where you go to, when your eyes glaze over with a decided twinkle."

George smiled at her, only too happy to share, and beyond happy to see her. "Fred loved the snow." He answered, and knew that would be enough.

Rufus tugged on the line. "Rufus too." She laughed, and then catching his eye, something seemed to give in her just a little. "Join us!"

They walked to the school yards together, where they were able to let the dog off the leash so he could chase the birds to his content. Watching him was magical, so simple a joy he took in things like chasing other critters.

"How is Alf doing?" She asked. "I know his school work is still fine, but he does seem to tire quickly."

"Better each day, I've noticed." George said. "And no headaches for a week now." He sobered up for a moment. "I couldn't have born it, you know…if anything had happened to him. Still gives me nightmares sometimes."

"I know." She said, giving his arm a slight squeeze. "I've had hundreds of kids come through my class, George, but I've never seen a father and son as close as you two. Close in a healthy way, I mean; I've seen kids whose parents smothered them. But you two just…fit together. Maybe it's losing your wife, or not…but…"

He couldn't bear it any longer. "Shell." He paused, drawing her to a stop and turning to look at her. "I need to tell you something."

She looked at him expectantly. George let his eyes wander over the horizon, deep in thought. So much he wanted to tell her, and so much he couldn't. But he couldn't let Katie Bell, rest her soul, stand between them; frankly, he doubted Katie would have wanted to! "This is complicated. There's a lot I'd like to say, that I really just can't. But…you need to know…Alf's mother did die this summer. But I wasn't married to her." He looked down at her, seeing comprehension in her eyes. "I did love her once, when I was a boy…" That had been true, before he'd stepped aside for his brother. "But although I never stopped respecting her, and although she was a great mother to Alf, for which I will always be grateful to her…I am not mourning her, save as a friend."

To his surprise, Michelle seemed to actually relax. "Thanks, George." She said. "I had been wondering…" She chuckled. "Are you familiar with the author Jane Austen?"

"Writer of chick lit." George, confused but not wanting to seem a dolt, admitted. "My Mum loves her."

"In the book Sense and Sensibility, there is a character named Marianne. She loves the wrong man, and then eventually agrees to marry another, who is a far better person. Most expect her to be happy, but not in love with him; yet Austen says of her, that she could never love by halves..:" Michelle put her hands on George's shoulders. "That's you, George. You're funny as hell, and smart, but behind it all you feel things deeply. You don't love by halves. I mean, you still mourn your brother, who's been dead ten years. So I just couldn't understand how losing your wife six months ago was so easy for you." She laughed. "A friend of mine actually suggested you'd offed her!"

George felt a blush creep up on his cheeks, as he slowly wrapped his own arms around her waist. He ignored the insinuation. "So…you've brought me up to your friends have you?"

"Maybe once or twice." She looked up at him, and he leaned in, so their noses nearly touched, and then went to kiss her…

She backed her head away just slightly. "George…before…well…" She shook her head. "I owe you an explanation too…about Anthony."

Uh, oh. George loosed his arms just enough so that her body wasn't quite so close to him. "You don't owe me anything, Michelle…" He said, rubbing his thumbs along her back.. "I mean, you can tell me anything you want to…but whatever you don't…that's okay too…"

"I love that you say that." She leaned forward and rested her head on his chest, and was silent for a moment. "Because I…I…can't quite tell you everything yet, George. But there's some that I NEED to tell you." She closed her eyes. "You know, I think, how Anthony died?"

"September 11." George replied, resting his chin on her head.

"Well, on September 10, we broke the engagement."

THAT he didn't expect. Stepping back from her, holding her hands, he looked at her. "Why?"

She gave him a half laugh. "Remember how I told you I kind of remade myself to fit in with Anthony's life, with his expectations? I was okay with that, okay with how I was deciding to live my life. But there were things that I felt he should know if we were going to share a life together…especially if we had kids." She winced. "That night, over a bottle of wine, I told him…told him all the scary details of my life."

"Ah." George played with her hands gently. "Am I to take it that he didn't much care for what you told him?"

She let go abruptly and with a bitter laugh turned away. "He went crazy, George…I mean, after all our years together, as much as I trusted him…it ripped my heart out. The things he called me…" She held her hands over her eyes. "I can still hear them, George." She whispered.

He grasped her again, holding her close. "I'm sorry…" He kissed her on the top of her head. "So sorry, Shell…"

She sniffed once, but kept herself together, breathing deeply. "It ended with him storming out, and me throwing everything in my apartment around. Then, the next day…he was on duty early. I knew as soon as I saw the news coverage that he'd be there. When I saw the buildings fall…" She closed her eyes. "I didn't know what to do, George. I still loved him…I'd still hoped that we could work things out. Maybe we would have. Probably not, though…he was really angry. But as it ended…well, nobody knew, you see…he hadn't told anybody about the argument. Neither had I. Everyone thought I was a grieving fiancée, and instead I was…hell, a bitter woman with half an argument and no more life of her own."

George kept her close, as close as he could manage in public. "Tough charade to live with these past seven years, eh?"

"You have no idea." She shook her head, and they stood that way for a few minutes, with an occasional snow-flake flitting down to them. She broke the silence first. "Aren't you going to ask what heinous thing he found so repulsive?"

"Well, I could guess…being the house-husband that I am, so to speak, watching enough bad talk shows, I am going to guess that you are…a post-op transsexual."

"GEORGE!" She turned to him in indignation, to see the smile on his face. "Oh, YOU!"

He laughed, grasping her hands before she could swat at him playfully. "Not, then? Alright. Otherwise, I don't much care." She paused, looking at him uncertainly. "Really. Look, Shell, earlier I said there were things I couldn't tell you…and there are reasons for that…and you accepted it. Well, if there are things that you are a little uneasy telling me…and I can see why you would be uneasy…then who am I to get all put out about it?" He wrapped his arms around her once more, and this time pulled her in flush to his body. "Six months, Shell…let's give it six months…to the end of the school year, anyway."

"And then…" She asked, barely daring to breathe.

"And then, either we will trust each other enough to bare the worst, or not. I think given that both of us have been, in our own ways, damaged in the past…we can allow each other that much time." He nuzzled her gently. "Can I kiss you now?" He whispered to her.

"Try and find out." She whispered back, getting up on her toes, chin raised.

He leaned forward, and then stopped. "And you're sure you're not a man?" He teased.

Michelle closed the distance, letting her lips meet his, parsing his lips and tasting George as she'd wanted to for so long. She felt him responding to her, as their mouths danced sweetly together, before she broke for air. Nuzzling along his cheek, she worked her way to his good ear. "Again, George…I suggest you try and find out."

He grinned wickedly. "I plan on doing EXACTLY that!"

WWWWWWWWW

_Meanwhile…back in England…_

Draco Malfoy came into the grand foyer of the mansion he had lived in his entire life. A house elf popped before him immediately, removing his snow covered cape and his gloves.

"Thank you, Tibby." He said, evenly. The house elf…one whom had been gifted to him as a child, one who was HIS, bowed low.

"Master Draco should have tea, Sir…" Tibby offered. And then, with a sideways look, added. "Tibby could serve tea in the nursery, Sir."

Draco smirked quietly. "Tibby knows his master well."

Draco effected nonchalance until he was in front of his son's room. Scorpius' house elf, Winnie, was sitting in the corner, watching as his son balanced blocks carefully one on top of the other.

"You're excused, Winnie. Get yourself some dinner." He said, laughing as Scorpius turned at his voice, his arms outstretched to his father immediately.

"Papa!" The tiny blonde boy cried out. Draco swooped in and scooped the boy up at once, spinning him around. Winnie was fidgeting and had not moved from her chair.

"Winnie…" Draco looked down at the elf, and then frowned.

Winnie's hands were burned badly, as if a flatiron had been pressed on them. She saw Draco's look, and promptly hid them. "Winnie…" He asked, calmly. "What has mistress Pansy done to you?"

"Mistress Pansy did not do this, Sir. Winnie did this to herself. Mistress Pansy was angry at Master Scorpius because he spit up his pumpkin juice on her shoulder." Winnie explained, her head low.

"Master Scorpius is allergic to pumpkin juice." Draco scowled.

"Yes, Sir…and Winnie tries to tell Mistress Pansy this, but she will not listen, Sir." Winnie looked up at him with wide, watery eyes. "Mistress Pansy went to strike the young Master, but Winnie says she will punish herself instead."

Scorpius had laid his head on Draco's shoulder. "Mama angry." He murmured. "Winnie has booboo."

Draco knelt before Winnie. "Give me your hands, Winnie."

Trembling, the house elf did so. Draco took out his wand and issued a few soft incantations; Winnie's hands healed markedly, their redness decreasing. He sighed that he hadn't been able to do better. "I am sorry for Mistresses' actions, Winnie. But I thank you for protecting Scorpius." He looked at her seriously. "You will let me know if something like this happens again?"

Winnie's head was held high…as high as could be, for a house elf. "Winnie is bonded to Master Scorpius, she will do anything for him. And Master Draco is a great wizard."

"I am not a great anything, Winnie…I can at best hope to be a good man, and even that isn't easy, living in this place." Draco's lips twisted in a wry smile. "Go, now."

With a bow, the house elf popped away. Tea appeared at that moment, already prepared how he liked it, along with a bottle filled with orange juice for his son. Draco sighed, arranging himself in the rocking chair, holding his most precious possession close to him. Scorpius' silver blue eyes watched his father thoughtfully, bottle held before him.

Draco pushed the toddler's blond hair to the side of his face. "Well, little one…do you want to know how Papa's day went?

Scorpius nodded. Draco chuckled. "Well, Papa spent the early part of the day managing the affairs of Malfoy Manner. You know, Papa owns this house now, as Grandfather was forced to divest himself all property after the war. I think he thought that Papa would run the estate the same way he did; he is most vexed that Papa is not doing so. But he is without power, now, so that is good for us all, hm?"

Draco smiled at the boy, and Scorpius immediately smiled back. "Then Papa had the afternoon to work with the smartest Witch of the age, Ms. Hermione Granger Weasley. Your grandfather used to get very angry with your Papa because Hermione always got better grades than he did, and grandfather is most unpleasant when he is angry."

Scorpius put his hand up to Draco's face, stroking his cheek as if he really understood what UNPLEASANT meant. Draco swore to himself silently that Scorpius never would.

"Anyway, your Papa hated her for a long time because of that, but things change…you sometimes really do get smarter when you get older. And right now, Papa is working with Hermione on a very special potion with her, one that will make the young man who saved your life better from something that ails him."

"A-fred." Scorpius murmured around the bottle, nodding.

"Very good Scorpius, what a SMART little boy you are to remember Alfred." Draco kissed the child tenderly on the head. "Someday I will take you to Mr. Weasley's shop, and you can have whatever toy you want, even if it's just a silly trick that Grandfather would say was a waste of money." Draco's eyes glinted like steel. "Especially if it's just that."

"Anyway, your Papa happens to be very good at potions. In fact, he'd love to teach potions at Hogwarts, but that can never happen. Oh, and Hermione is quite good too…" Draco leaned in. "Can you keep a secret, Scorpius?"" The child nodded solemnly. "Papa had a crush on Hermione once…before Grandfather drove him to obsession with dark things. That was a long time ago, though…and it never would have worked. But sometimes Papa wonders what it would be like to be married to someone nicer than Mama is." He sighed. "And thank God you aren't old enough to absorb any of this." He added, more to himself.

Looking down once more, he said very earnestly. "Papa made some mistakes when he was younger…the biggest one of all being to listen to Grandfather. But he's going to make up for all that. He'll make sure that the Malfoy name is one you can be proud of when you get to Hogwarts." He smirked. "Or at least not get you beat up in principle. Maybe you can even be friends with Hermione's daughter Rosie. That would make Grandfather wild with anger, which means it would suit me just fine."

Draco looked down; Scorpius had nodded off. He removed the bottle gently from the child's hands, but sat rocking him still, reluctant to put down the only human friend he had in Malfoy Manor.

His father still despised him, although the sting had gone out of that some time ago. His wife was an arranged marriage that only the depth of blood promise stupidity had forced Pansy to fulfill. His mother loved him…had betrayed Voldemort and saved Harry Potter for his sake…but she had reverted to being the perfect society housewife once more, cold and unfeeling. Funny, because the Malfoy name, thanks to Lucius, had all the clout of a used Kleenex. Only money gave them any standing any longer.

Money that they had almost lost. Kingsley Shacklebolt had been encouraged by the Wizengamut to strip the Malfoys of all property. Lucius had pleaded desperately not to do that to his son…his poor innocent son…who had done no wrong.

Draco had snorted. Innocent? Yeah, right…there wasn't anybody who had ever known him at Hogwarts who was going to believe that. And he wasn't fooled either by his father's sudden appeal on his behalf. If he was urging the minister to keep the money in Draco's name, it was only because he believed he'd still be able to control his son. (He'd learned otherwise…and quickly).

Draco had watched Kingsley's advisor, Percy Weasley, confer with Harry Potter briefly. Then young Weasley had leaned in to the minister. And whatever was said…whatever lie Harry Potter told…had resulted in all the Malfoy money being placed in Draco's name. Another moment when Harry Potter and the Weasley clan might have left him to justice, and had bailed him out.

Sometimes he wished they hadn't, that time. Sometimes, he thought about cold, unforgiving, Malfoy Manner, and house elves too used to being beaten and used themselves, and his father's brooding sulkiness and his mother's obliviousness, and his wife's iciness, and wondered. Stripped of everything, what might he have been? Conductor on the night bus? Perhaps working for an apothecary…that wouldn't be half bad. In any event, he would have been his own man, entirely…free maybe to even marry a woman who actually loved him, if he could have found one.

But that wasn't meant to be…freedom would be reserved for his son. And he was bound to see that it happened. His son would not quake in fear returning home from the holidays, when he was not first in his class. His son would not have it pounded in to him that all who did not honor centuries old and pointless blood laws were to be despised, and, if possible, eliminated. His son would not wear a supercilious hauteur that hid his own anxieties to please and be liked. His son would marry whomever he fell in love with, and Draco would embrace her as his own.

Draco's father wished for him to be a Great Man, and instead nearly had him branded a traitor. Draco's son could, however, still be great…the difference being that Draco actually understood what greatness was. And it wasn't bowing to and doing the will of a misguided half-blood with issues. It wasn't even the heroics of the great Harry Potter in victory. It was in the charity that Harry Potter had shown afterwards, in the loyalty of Ron Weasley, in the courage of Neville Longbottom.

It was perhaps most of all in the life of George Weasley, who'd lost so much in the war, who persevered, who brought laughter to the lives of many, who now was doing whatever it took to save the life of his dead twin's son. He'd been envious of the Weasley family his whole life, and perhaps of the raucous Fred and George the most, but age had brought him something new…respect for the living twin, and admiration even. Yes, Scorpius could do worse, than to follow the greatness of George Weasley. And Draco would move heaven and earth to make it happen.

WWWWWWWW

She watched him sleep.

George Weatherby, sprawled out on the bed, naked except for a sheet that had tangled between them and the smile he wore on his face even as he dozed. How beautifully perfect he was, she thought, right down to the scarred area on his head where he'd lost an ear. It didn't mar him to her…she traced the ridge gently with her forefinger…it somehow was him, part of what made George so perfectly George.

Her hand slid back through his hair, that she had called carrot-y when she'd first met him. It was shinny copper red, like bright pennies and the promises they held for a child. She moved along, tracing his neck, his spine, and felt him curl under her like a cat might. She stopped herself from going any further…let the poor boy get some sleep. After all, they'd been up much of the night!

She wondered if Alfred knew. She rather thought he must; there wasn't much the boy missed. And he was, in his own way, as sweetly protective of his father as was the other way about. She imagined he way okay with it; if he weren't, she doubted she'd be here.

Right now the boy was sleeping over Tony's…Jimmy giving her a knowing look when he'd come by to pick him up. Somehow, when she and George had stumbled back rather starry-eyed from that walk, yesterday, Alf had anticipated them, and very casually announced that the Castelli's had invited him to sleep over, and was that alright? Good kid he was!

She wondered when she'd tell George everything, wondered how he'd react. Wondered what he still had to tell her. But she didn't wonder much. George wasn't like Anthony…his mind wandered through fields of imagination and dreams so freely. And she'd already decided that whatever he had to tell her would be fine with her. They fit, with each other. Damaged, George had called them, and she supposed they were, in a way. She didn't care.

Seeing George shiver lightly…no longer moving enough to keep warm, unlike last night!...she reached down and pulled the blanket lightly up to his shoulders, planting a kiss at the nape of his neck as she did so. He murmured softly in his sleep and then snuggled under the covers, not unlike a child. She held in a laugh, and got up, searching for clothing to put on. With a smirk she found the perfect item, and much warmer she headed for the kitchen.

WWWWWWWWW

George had the most marvelous dreams. Satiny skin against his, gentle gasps and sighs, shivering anticipation running throughout his body. Laughter and teasing touches, moans and pleas for more, for lower, slower, deeper. Warmth filled him, fullness consumed him, completed him.

And then there was joy, as he opened his eyes, and realized it had not been dreams.

Sure, his bed was empty now; but she'd been there; the sheets were still tangled and the comforter only covered his half of the bed; an indentation indicated she'd not been long absent. Indeed, he could smell coffee rising from the kitchen…

The kitchen! A jolt of fear ran through him. The kitchen ran in to the living room, which is where the fireplace was. The fireplace where any one of his well-meaning family members might firecall him at a moment's notice.

There was a system, of course. A figurine had been spelled so that if placed on the left side of the mantle, it acted as a do-not-disturb indication. George routinely moved it back and forth depending on whether or not he had company. Right now, he was fairly certain it was on the right side…and imagined that was going to be awkward indeed, when his muggle lover found a talking head in the fireplace! Sprinting up and grabbing his pajama bottoms, George thundered down the stairs into the living room, and rectified the danger.

"I am rather insulted, George…" A voice called from the doorway. "To think that you sprinted half dressed out of bed to examine a Hummel."

George flushed, but felt relieved that apparently nothing unexpected or even vaguely magical had happened. "I had a dream about it, strange as that may sound." He lied, turning to look at her. His blush deepened immediately.

Michelle was, quite beautifully, draped against the doorframe. Her hair tousled, her lips still ruddy, coffee in her hand, and wearing nothing but his blue "g" sweater, which draped to her knees.

"Oh, my…" He murmured, barely registering the fact that he was half naked, and rather cold.

"I hope you don't mind." She said, indicating that she expected he wouldn't. "But I've always loved this sweater." She nuzzled her own shoulder. "It smells of cedar and nutmeg, and coffee, and your cologne. It smells like you."

"I must say…" He came forward, drinking her in. "It looks a good deal better on you than me."

"Then I must look damned good, because I thought you were pretty fine in it yourself." She passed the coffee to his lips, and held it while he sipped. Their eyes never parted. "What time does Alf get home?" She asked, her hand scaling his bare back.

"Not for a few hours yet." George answered, putting the coffee resolutely back on the table.

"Time enough." She gazed up at him suggestively.

George needed no further invitation; he scooped her up. "Then let's get to work…time is wasting!"

WWWWWWW

When Alf tumbled through the door later that morning, Michelle and George were rather innocently sitting at the kitchen table, with their second cup of coffee.

"How was your sleep over?" George asked, trying to sound normal.

Alf considered saying, "Fine, how was yours?" but decided he liked life too much. "Great." He went to the fridge for milk, then turned back to the table. "So…are you two officially an item now, or what?"

His teacher laughed; his father blushed. "Obvious, is it?" George asked.

"Brilliant." He replied, coming over to hug his dad. He looked inquiringly at Michelle. "I don't suppose this is going to help my grades, is it?"

"On the contrary…I'm going to have to make sure I don't play favorites." She said, eyebrows raised over her mug.

"I was afraid of that!" He lamented, picking up his bag. "I guess I better get to work on that science project."

George was eyeing the bag carefully. "That thing looks considerably heavier than when you left, Alf."

"It is." Alf said, a faint smirk, on his face. But he offered nothing else.

George waited a moment, and then asked, "Is it in anyway anything criminally oriented that I need to be concerned about?"

"Nope."

His father shrugged. "Carry on, then."

Alf lugged the bag upstairs, hearing Michelle say, "You two are too funny."

WWWWWWWW

After Michelle left, and a rather smirking but smartly quiet Alf returned downstairs to work on the computer, George found himself in a restless but happy daze meandering through the house. Once in the living room, he remembered to move the figurine to allow fire chats, and then looked briefly out the window. It was snowing again. Letting the curtain fall, he looked about the room, running his hand through his hair. He couldn't do any writing, as Alf was finishing up a paper, so he attempted to proof what he'd done so far. At the moment, it was Christmas in Harry's first year, and he and Fred were frog-marching Percy down to the hall.

"_And you're not sitting with the prefects either, Percy…Christmas is a time for family…"_

Suddenly a lump hit his throat, and his mood crashed with an abruptness that startled him. It would be his first Christmas with Alf, and they were three thousand miles from home.

There was a crackle at the fireplace. "'Allo, George?" Arthur cried out. "We've been trying to get through to you all day…you there?"

George blinked away the tears he'd been fighting and composed himself. "Oi, Dad…sorry about that. I had…er…muggle company."

His father's soothing presence in the fire place calmed him, as it never failed to. Even when Arthur beamed slyly. "Muggle company, eh…yes, I believe Charlie might have mentioned something about that…"

"Charlie has a big mouth…" George grumbled, and Arthur laughed at him before continuing.

"So, how's our boy doing, then? All recovered?" His father hid the family worry beneath his calm good humor.

"Great, actually…we're getting ready for the holidays, got a nice layer of snow here…was thinking about what to get him, actually." George mused, letting is voice get wistful without meaning to.

"You sound a tad down, son. Anything on your mind?" Arthur prodded him.

George considered lying, but figured, correctly, that it wasn't much use given how he finally appreciated how astute his father was. "Dad, things are going great here…really, they are…but I cannot tell you enough how much I miss you…" He pulled himself together. "As great as it was having Charlie for the holiday, I just wish it could have been you."

Arthur's eyes misted up, but he grinned wide. "Be careful what you wish for, George!" He waved the documents he had in his hand wildly. "Guess what these are!"

George couldn't make them out; his father was moving much too fast. "Um…it's not the heads of Katie Bell's family, so…"

"No, not that lucky…these are genuine muggle airplane tickets, George! From Heathrow to Logan Airport in…" He read them carefully. "Boston, Massachusetts, USA! That is your closest airport, isn't it?"

"Wha…Dad…wait…" George gaped wildly at his now dancing father.

"Your mum bought me the tickets…I'll be with you boys for Christmas! She knows I've always wanted to take an Airplane, and now that Alf sent me that paper so I know how they work…"

"DAD!" George's gulped yell caused Arthur to stop in his happy-dance. "What do you mean, Christmas?"

Arthur's visage seemed to come partially through the fireplace, closer to him, as if he wanted to touch George's cheek. "You didn't think we could let you and Alfred spend the holiday alone, George?"

"But the family…I don't want to take you away from everyone else…" He stuttered out.

"Everyone else will have each other. It's a done deal, George…don't go getting all heroic and noble. The family talked it over together, and Molly went out and took care of the transportation…ostensibly I am on a muggle junket with the English Prime Minister. Nice enough bloke he seems, less stunned by the whole magic thing than most of them, or so I understand."

Tears stung George's eyes. "Dad…that's…that's…God, I love you!"

Arthur beamed at him. "I know that, you silly git. Now go on…I'm meeting Hermione later and she's going to go through run-throughs so I don't make like a moron on the airplane. Go take care of my grandson…and we'll see you for Christmas."

As George pulled his head out of the fireplace, he looked around the room, brightening considerably. "A muggle Christmas with Dad!" He murmured. "This will be bloody brilliant!"


	7. Ch 7, December, 2008 II

Alf stood by his locker, getting ready to walk home. He zipped his jacket up tightly, and pulled on is hat and gloves, for the weather had grown cold. It had been the last day of school before the Christmas break and the kids were rather wired, noisy and on cookie induced sugar highs. They'd had a party that afternoon, with everyone bringing in food from home. Alf had no doubt been the hit of the event thanks to a selection of from-scratch gingerbread, perfectly decorated. He suspected that should his father ever meet some of his class-mates' mothers that Miss Fabry might have some competition. Either that, or the other mothers would murder him for showing them up.

He tucked his last paper into his bag...he'd earned an "A" for his book report on The Hobbit...and turned to go, nearly walking right in to Mike O'Malley.

Alf came up short. Mike did not look good; the boy's face was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes. He was holding his own paper, also an "A". Alf nodded towards it and tried to start a conversation. "Nice job. What did you read?"

"Chronicles of Narnia." Mike said, with a shrug. "Doesn't matter, though." He went to move past him.

Alf hesitated, and then decided he had to try to get Mike to talk to him. "Your father still being stupid about the soccer game?"

Mike turned and looked at him, a hint of anger in his eyes. "You couldn't give me just _one_ goal, could you? Had to be the big hero."

Alf felt his face get hot. "I nearly died, you idiot." He snapped. "And it was all reflex...I didn't even know it was you who took the shot until I came to."

Mike looked like he was going to say something further, and then suddenly his shoulders sagged. "Sorry. Not your fault that I suck." He turned and walked out the door.

"You don't..." Alf trotted after him. "Mike, you're really good..."

Mike stopped in the playground and whirled on him. "Not good enough!" He snapped. "Never, never good enough!" He pulled out his papers. "A's, not good enough...gold stars, not good enough; making regional band, not good enough!" He emptied the contents of his book bag over the snowy field; Alf scrambled to pick things up for him; Mike turned and whirling threw the book bag as far as he could, before sinking down into the snow, folding up on himself and shaking.

Alf retrieved the bag and carefully re-stuffed it with everything he'd gathered, and headed nervously back to where Mike was still sitting. He just didn't know what to say. Alf had never been particularly good enough for his step father either, but the man had never been malicious about it, and besides, he'd had Mum. He stood by for a second and then offered Mike his hand. Mike accepted without words, taking his bag back, and the two of them headed across the fields.

"What are you doing for Christmas?" He tried.

Mike shrugged. "Dunno...it's just me and my father this year, and he's not talking to me."

"What...I mean...how long has he not been talking..." Alf sputtered out awkwardly.

Mike didn't look at him. "Since the game."

"But that's _four weeks_!" Alf said, horrified. Mike turned and glared at him, as if to say _I know exactly how long it's been you idiot._ Alf tried to think of something else to say. "What about your Mum? Are you seeing her for Christmas?" He added, weakly.

"She's in Cancun. Or maybe it's Cayman, this time. I lose track." Mike shrugged, pretending not to care. "Some Island with her new boyfriend, anyway...said that since Dad made such a big deal about her not being a fit mother that he could handle me for holidays on his own."

Alf winced, and decided just to stop talking full out after that. He thought about asking Mike to come over for Christmas dinner...he knew his Dad would be alright with it, but figured that O'Malley would never allow it.

As they approached the fence that bordered Alf's back yard, something occurred to him. "Why are you walking with me at all, Mike? I thought you weren't allowed to hang with me?" He asked.

Mike stopped and adjusted the pack on his back, and turned to him. "I think in this instance Dad'll be okay with it."

Alf blinked. "Why..." He didn't have a chance to think beyond that. The punch Mike threw connected squarely with his eye. "OW!" He moved his hands up defensively, and Mike, in a full rage, knocked him over into the snow.

"I wish you'd _never moved here_." He kicked him three times in the ribs for emphasis...Alf curled up defensively...then Mike's assault stopped abruptly. Alf collected himself, breathing hard, and pulled back towards the fence, looking at Mike in shock with his one good eye. Mike was pale and composed, his jaw shaking slightlty. "Go home, go crying to your perfect father and perfect life. So your mother died...big deal, at least she loved you..." Mike's voice cracked and his eyes filled with tears. "You know what, Weatherby? Fuck you. You don't matter at all. Nothing matters." And he swiftly darted over the fence and through the yard towards the cul-de-sac to his own house.

Trembling, Alf picked himself up, gingerly climbed over the fence and slowly walked into his own kitchen.

"Hey, Alf...how did the Gingerbread go over..." George turned from t he computer as he came in, and then jumped up quickly. "Alf! Your eye!"

Alf didn't say a word, but just hugged George as tight as he could, refusing to let go. And hating himself for doing exactly what Mike had mocked him for, he started to cry.

WWWWWWW

It took half an hour before Alf could get out everything that had happened. George waited patiently, trying hard to stay calm when a part of him wanted to hunt down Mike O'Malley and rip his arms off. But he knew, really, that wasn't fair of him. Mike may have thrown the punch, but it was really his father who was to blame. The kid was cracking; there was only so much mental anguish a ten year old could handle.

He was more concerned, frankly, about how much Alf could handle.

"Sit up here, kiddo..." He assisted Alf onto the table. "Let me see that eye."

Alf sniffed hard, but let George look him over carefully. "I want to heal this in the worst way..." He muttered.

"If Mike tells his dad what he did...and I think he thought it was the one thing he could do that would make him happy...then it's going to cause notice if I suddenly don't have a black eye." Alf pointed out.

George exhaled in frustration and went to the freezer for a bag of frozen peas. "Try this..." He said. "I will fade it a little, later on...I don't want your grandfather to think I've started using you for a punching bag."

Alf snorted. "He knows you better...ow!"

George had lifted Alf's sweater, and had laid his hand on his bruised side. "Sorry, Alf." He ran his hand gently over the area, and then turned to look about him before taking out his wand. With a few whispered commands, he discovered that Alf's ribs were neither broken nor cracked, just bruised. Well, no reason he couldn't handle _that._ A few dabs of Fleur's special oil, and the marks were fading. "There...that, at least, is taken care of. Lucky it wasn't worse." He smiled up at Alf reassuringly, and the boy leaned forward to hug him again, leaning his head on George's shoulder

Now that the body bruises were healed, George was able to squeeze him back. Alf spoke indistinctly. "I just wanted to help him, Dad. But I don't know how."

"I don't think you can, Alf." George admitted, though he could wish otherwise. He rubbed his back in slow circles, thinking things over carefully. "When your Uncle Harry was stuck all those school breaks with the Dursleys, I remember how desperate my parents were to get him the hell out of there. We all were, really. They weren't physically abusing him, either, and of course you know that there were reasons we couldn't really get him all the way away from them, but it was still an awful place for him to be. I don't know if I ever fully appreciated how hard it was for my parents to just sit by and watch." He stood back from Alf a bit, and put both hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye. "You offered Mike a hand, Alf. Keep trying. Although not at your physical expense, mind..."

Whatever Alf might have said next was interrupted by the doorbell. George gave Alf a hand off the table and the boy followed him towards the door. A quick glance at the vase showed that they were in no danger, so George opened up…and promptly wondered if Hermione had lost her touch. It was Butch O'Malley.

"Weatherby." The man stood before him in a heavy down parka, arms behind him. He looked down to Alf, who had come up next to George in the doorway. "Ah, I see what Mike told me is right enough."

George looked at him, squeezing Alf's shoulder tightly. "And now that you've gotten your satisfaction, perhaps you'd be kind enough to vacate my doorstep."

O'Malley glared at him. "Fine attitude when I've come to apologize, Weatherby."

"Apologize?" George asked, more than a little taken aback.

"Yes...Michael had no business taking his frustrations out on your son. Mike is a disappointment; that's not Alfred's fault." The man looked outright disgusted.

George didn't speak for a few seconds, then, without looking anywhere but O'Malley, he spoke. "Alfred, go inside, please." His voice was quiet and dangerous...the last time Alf had heard that tone was when he'd nearly blown up the joke shop.

"Dad?" He asked, nervously.

"Please, Alf. I need to speak to Mr. O'Malley alone."

Alf turned to go inside reluctantly, and George shut the door so that he was alone on the front porch with his neighbor.

"What did you _do_ to Mike when he told what he'd done to Alf?" George asked, in the same tone of voice.

O'Malley turned red. "What do you take me for, Weatherby? I'm no child beater. I've given him a good slap on occasion, I admit...and he could probably stand a beating, given his behavior today, but I'll not have any run ins with the law."

George blinked once, and crossed his arms. "Right. Never mind what you would do if the law allowed. Tell me, O'Malley, do you _love_ your son?"

"You have no right to ask me that!" He blustered.

"Maybe not. But Mike does. However, I think he'd be too afraid of you to do it. Or what's worse, I think he's already decided what the answer is, and it isn't yes." George matched the glare head on. "If Alf had missed that save, do you think I would have loved him any less? I wouldn't even have been disappointed in him. How could I be, when I know he'd given his all?"

O'Malley tried to rally back. "Loving him hasn't got anything to with wanting him to be the best!" He jutted his chin out.

George wasn't backing down. "Wanting him to be _the_ best, or wanting him to do _his_ best? Whether you realize it or not you've made your love conditional on his performance on the soccer field. Alf tells me his grades are good, that he's a skilled musician and, despite you, a nice person. But none of that seems to matter to you. Tell me, is it true you stopped talking to him?"

"Yes." O'Malley looked just a tad flustered at how much George knew about Mike. "I broke silence today after he told me about Alf, trust me...but now he can forget getting out of his room for the remainder of the holiday, let alone me speaking to him."

_My wand...I want my wand in the worst way. That ton-tongue toffee we gave to Dudley isn't anything compared to what I want to do to this man!_ "You would keep him locked up on Christmas, O'Malley? Fine show of forgiveness _that_ is." George took a deep breath, and decided to try reason. "That boy is hurting, Butch. He needs you to talk to him, not ignore him. He needs a father, not a soccer coach. He acted out towards Alf in desperation...because he thought you'd approve of it, and he will do anything for your approval. He didn't just make that belief up out of nothing." O'Malley just stared blankly back at him, causing George to despair. "You may not believe me, O'Malley, but you'll end up regretting it if you don't reach out to him. Life is too precious, too short, to let a day go by without telling someone you love them."

O'Malley snorted. "Pansy Englishmen." He shrugged. "I'll have my boy made of stronger stuff than that...and when he does do something worth approving of, I'll let him know." He made to turn around, and then paused. "Oh, and Weatherby? Merry Christmas."

_One hex...just one hex, please...just one that's not too obvious, nothing that will cause him injury...just one...just one..._ George thought he would burst from the itch to fetch his wand when...

WHOOSH!

The entire snowy contents of the large fir tree in the front yard unloaded all on to O'Malley's head.

George turned and quickly entered the house, shutting the door behind him and sinking to the floor, laughing.

Alf had been watching from the window, and came over to him. "Um, everything okay?" He asked, timidly.

"Oh, fine, fine...I think I might have just done accidental magic for the first time since I was five years old...other than that..." George wiped his hair away from his forehead. "Dad'll kill me."

"On the contrary..." Alf came over and assisted him up. "I bet he'll approve."

"Maybe." George looked down at his son, and then guided him back to the kitchen, to Fleur's salve. "We've satisfied O'Malley's curiosity well enough, I think." He dabbed gently at Alf's eye. "And after that confrontation I don't think it's likely we'll be seeing him for the rest of the holiday. No reason for you to run around looking like a hoodlum."

"You just don't want to explain to Grandpa." Alf teased.

"Also true. We need to leave shortly, by the way...I hear driving to Logan is a real bitch." George watched with approval as the swollen eye began to first go purple, and then green-blue, and then fade back to its healed state, the swelling going down beautifully. Alf blinked, and a pair of clear blue eyes met his.

"Thanks, Dad. For trying with Mike's dad, I mean...although for healing me too."

George ruffled his hair gently. "I wish I could say I did some good to more than your eye." He turned to pick up the car keys. "Go on, then, get your jacket..." He looked down at the table. "Oi, did you get an A on that book report?" George beamed. "You're ruddy brilliant, Alf...you should be the writer, not me..."

Alf ran up to him and bear hugged him. "Iloveyou." He rushed out in one word, before turning and running back and up the stairs to fetch his coat, leaving a bemused George standing with the paper in his hand.

WWWWWWWW

George paced in the baggage area of Logan Airport, waiting nervously. This whole flight thing had him tied in knots. Alfred stood off to the side, watching a monitor that told of the impending arrival of British Airways flight 625 from London.

"Why can't we meet him at the gate?" George muttered to Alf for about the seventeenth time.

"9-11." Alf answered, without showing any impatience. "They've just arrived." He added, as the monitor flickered.

George exhaled. He knew muggle flight was apparently safe, but ever since he'd watched those awful videos of those hijacked planes crashing in to buildings he'd become a nervous wreck. Give him a broom any day. Add that to the concerns he had about his father being on a plane, in general, and he was strung tighter than a well tuned piano.

"Gramps will be okay, Dad." Alf said, neatly reading his mind. It would have been more disconcerting how often he was able to do that now, if George hadn't spent the first twenty years of his life having his mind read by Fred. "Aunt Hermione's really smart, you know."

"Yeah…but she isn't traveling with him." He pictured his father's child-like joy at every little beep and buzz that muggles probably didn't even hear, let alone remark on. "How long will it take?"

Alfred shrugged. "Depends how long customs takes."

George opted against asking what customs he was talking about…was there some sort of strange ritual endured when engaging on muggle flight? Again, Alf understood him, and came up close beside him.

"Customs is what they call it when you go from one country to another…" He whispered. "They want to make sure they keep out anybody they don't want."

"Ah." George was quietly grateful for the information…he'd envisioned his father being grilled about American preferences in television or some such nonsense.

Time moved slowly…George watched baggage being spit out on a conveyor belt across from them; other airlines with other passengers. Several family reunions seemed to take place around him, embracing couples and joyous grandparents. He felt his throat constrict slightly…he missed his family, desperately. Still, there were a handful of Brits arriving now…arriving with handshakes and polite kisses on cheeks.

"George! George, my boy!" An overjoyed Arthur waved to him from a moving conveyance. George watched with laughter as his father nearly stumbled of the escalator (daunting things…George had nearly ended up flat on his face the first time he'd used one), and then they ran to each other, with a forceful, back-slapping embrace. Alfred, watching in high amusement, came with him, and once Arthur released George he did the same to Alf, swinging him around with a whoop.

"Nice flight, Gramps?" Alf asked.

"Bloody brilliant!" Arthur's eyes sparkled. "We had the most marvelous turbulence the whole way over!"

George laughed out loud once more, laying one hand on his father's shoulder and the other on Alf's head. "I rather think you're not supposed to enjoy that part."

Indeed, several of the fellow passengers from the flight looked anywhere from annoyed to outright nauseous. They were also considerably more reserved than Arthur.

"Do you know…" His father said as they walked to the now-moving conveyor belt from Arthur's flight. "That the British have a reputation for being rather snooty?"

"Clearly they've never encountered Weasleys…er…Weatherbys before." George said, immediately spotting his father's bag; it was a brilliant lime green and purple plaid. "Oi, did MUM pick that out for you?"

"Yep…when we explained…er…the process to her, she was convinced the bag would be lost if not distinctive." George reached over for the moderately sized bag, and nearly had his arm fall off. He looked a question at Arthur.

"We rather added some…er…space to it, if you know what I mean, son." His father admitted sheepishly.

"Ah." George grinned. "I rather wondered…you could barely fit one of mum's sweaters in there, let alone three."

"What makes you think there would be a sweater in there?" Arthur asked.

George just shook his head and lead Arthur out towards the car.

The drive home was an even larger source of amazement for his father. He never tired of spotting the muggle Christmas decorations, or some other innovation, and he and Alf chatted without ceasing the whole trip.

Not until some hours later, once Alf had gone to bed (and after the endlessly patient explanations the boy had for the can opener, the flash light, the microwave and above all else, the television set) did George have a moment alone with his dad. Arthur was rummaging in the bottomless suitcase for something, and George headed in with a plate full of his newest culinary obsession.

"Jalepeno poppers. Home made, I'll have you know. They'll make your ears smoke…both of them for you, I would assume!" He quipped lightly.

"Ah! Yes, Charlie had said you'd become quite the cook. Your mother is in a state of shock." Arthur had in his hand a very fine vintage of firewhiskey, and he conjured up two glasses. "I expect this should be enough to knock me out proper…I was quite stoked for that flight."

"I hadn't noticed." George sat next to him, and they clinked glasses; Arthur delved in to the snacks, and his eyes lit up…and watered.

"Brilliant, George!" He said, smacking his lips. "We need to break these out at the next birthday."

George sighed a little, snuffing down the whisper of regret that rose in him. "If I'm able to be there."

Arthur understood. Funny thing, he always understood. They clinked glasses again, George draining his particularly quickly.

"Charlie said he thought you were adapting pretty well." Arthur said, more a question than a statement.

"I am. That's what scares me." George admitted. "There are moments when I can forget there is another world, Dad, apart from missing you lot."

Arthur gently laid his arm across George's shoulders, giving him a gentle squeeze. He accepted the gesture gratefully; funny, when he was younger he'd have shrugged his Dad off as being too mushy. He had a secret fear that Alf was reaching that age, and soon he'd be brushing aside the small gestures of comfort George delighted in making. It saddened him to think that would be coming around so soon, the trials of adolescence.

"Alf looks remarkably well, despite the scare you must have had." Arthur pointed out.

"He's in his glory." George smirked, sipping the firewhiskey and appreciating its magical burn. "Not too many kids get to tell their fathers what to do with such regular frequency."

Arthur looked to him again, and smiled gently. "He is your son now, isn't he, George."

George looked over to him, and set the glass down. "Dad…I don't know how the rest of the family is going to react, but…" He took a deep breath. "We get out of this muggle-ness, we get Alf cured, and we'll be heading home. But I'm not asking him to stop calling me Dad. I don't want him to, and I don't suspect he wants to, either. I'm not just his Uncle, and I won't hurt either one of us by pretending otherwise."

"Good for you." Arthur squeezed him again, and George felt a sense of relief at how utterly sensible his father was being. "And the family will understand, George. What's more, I expect Fred understands as well."

"Oh, Fred and I covered this months ago." George quipped. "He figures we always shared everything else…"

Arthur chuckled lightly. "It's good, George, to hear you just say his name. For so long it seemed like everyone was afraid to even mention him around you."

"Having Alf here brought him back to me. I dunno if I can even explain how, but it did." George admitted, then his eye caught the screen. "Oi, Dad, you have to see this…the domestic goddess who has taught me how to cook."

Rachel Ray was on television.

Arthur turned and watched with George, interested to see how this whole muggle notion of cooking shows worked. "Needs smell." He mentioned, as he watched garlic being sautéed in the pan.

"I know, it would really be awesome then. Only a matter of time, I bet, until the muggles figure out how." George leaned forward, watching his first ever celebrity crush.

Arthur started chuckling suddenly.

"What?" George asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Nothing just…" Arthur's eyes twinkled. "Doesn't she remind you of somebody?"

George hesitated. "Should she?"

Arthur shook his head. "She's just like you're MUM!"

"WHAT?" George sputtered, making Arthur laugh even harder.

Bloody Hell, George thought suddenly. He's RIGHT. The perkiness, the inventiveness, the skill with making a good meal out of nothing, the SMILE, dear God.

He had a crush on his _mother_!

He moaned and put his head in his hands.

"There, now, George, I always said you were the smartest of the lot." Arthur consoled him, the smile in his voice.

"I am imagining…" George groaned. "What Fred would say to me right now."

They watched a few minutes longer, George quietly laughing at himself for his own obtuseness. Arthur tactfully changed the conversation. "Hermione and Draco seem to have made great progress, with one small snag."

"Uh, oh…" George took a deep breath and waited.

"They were missing a key ingredient…a plant by the name of Lubranium Wilsap." Arthur paused, and noticed George's confusion. "I'd never heard of it, either. It's found near Icelandic hot springs and is excessively delicate. Neville Longbottom, however, has managed to cultivate one in his hot house…it is about a month away from maturity, however."

"Ah." George sat back, hands behind his head. "Hermione had alluded in a fire-chat to a source of help…so it's Neville…"

Arthur put his feet up on the coffee table, munching on another popper. "Actually, not, George…" He smacked his lips and wiped his hands. "It's a good deal stranger than that.

Hermione shook the rain from her umbrella and gave Aberforce Dumbledore a quick wave. Without further acknowledgement other than a nod, the barkeep turned back around to his dirty glassware, and the young witch proceeded to the back room.

Hermione found Draco waiting for her, two butterbeers and a stack of notes before him. The private room held only a few tables and no other occupants; the only decoration was a framed portrait that was currently empty. "Sorry I'm late…Ron was rather over time at the store today…again…" She frowned for a moment. "…and I couldn't leave the kids alone." She sat opposite him, and pulled her own notes from a tote bag.

Draco barely responded beyond an automatic smile. She noticed. "Rather distracted tonight?"

"Worried." Draco admitted. "My wife, if you must know. I detest leaving my son to her care for even five minutes."

Hermione was surprised Draco had even volunteered that much, but she couldn't keep a slightly reproachful tone from her reply. "I rather thought it was your HOUSE ELVES who cared for him."

Draco kept his face passive. "I know you are rather passionate about freeing them, Hermione, and there are times, like last night, when I quite understand you. But I wouldn't have survived my childhood without Tibby, and I am not sure Scorpius would be able to survive his." He looked at her, his eyes betraying his anxieties. "Winnie loves Scorpius far more than my wife does."

Hermione rubbed at her head. "I wish I could say I didn't believe you…" She looked at him, quite seriously. "Can I help you at all, Draco?"

"You could go back six years and convince me that falling in step with an arranged marriage was utter stupidity. Don't suppose you have a time-turner handy?" He quipped, attempting to lighten the mood.

"As interesting as all this is…" A voice laconically drawled from behind them. "If I am going to get anything through your thick skulls, can I suggest that we attempt to get to work?"

Draco and Hermione returned to the portrait, where Severus Snape reclined in an armchair, his long fingers pressed against each other, eyebrows raised. It had been only last month that the pair had discovered that Aberforth had possession of one of two portraits that existed of Snape…something nobody had ever known to have been in existence. And, as was the way of magical portraits, Snape's personage had been imbued with the knowledge that the subject contained in life.

"Of course, Professor." Draco said, in the same smooth voice he had used when in class. "Let us present our results so far…"

Hermione pulled her own drafts forward, and together they proceeded to apprise their mentor of their new notes and developments.

WWWWWW

George laid in bed, still stung from what his father had told him.

He'd hoped he'd hidden his reaction. Arthur had become incredibly astute when reading him, ever since that day he'd babysat Ginny's kids, but he didn't want Dad to misunderstand his feelings. He wasn't that Hermione and Draco had found a rather unorthodox assistant in the development of Alf's potion. Hell, he'd never seen anyone as good at potions as Severus Snape, and if it would help his son, he'd have consulted a portrait of Tom Riddle.

It was the reminder...the painful one...of how some people had been able to stay connected to their loved ones, even in death. A portrait of Snape wasn't Snape, of course...and a portrait of Fred wouldn't have been Fred. But how it would have eased his mind to have had some form of discourse, some tangible remainder of that bond.

Most pureblood families had portraits commissioned of their children when they came of age at seventeen. That way, a magical remainder was left behind even should some calamity befall them. But most pureblood families also had gringots vaults the size of the Potters. Not so the Weasleys. And he wasn't sure it would suit them, the morbid hanging on to days past. Weasleys were not into yesterdays nearly as much as they were tomorrows, and that was pretty much how they all, Fred included, had lived their lives.

But those dark days; the days when it had hurt to wake up, the nights he laid awake just wishing he could hear Fred snore...how comforting a portrait would have been then.

"Would it have?"

George blinked. Who had said that?

"I did you great stupid Git."

George turned over in bed, and ran his hand over his eyes. Somehow, he had found himself in his childhood bedroom; not as it was now, but as it was when he and Fred had been boys. Right down to Fred sitting on the bed opposite him.

George sat upright quickly, and then realized this was one of those dreams, one of those times when he felt Fred's presence so close that it was as if he'd never died at all. Other dreams seemed merely to be a parade of memories, images and warmth from his childhood, but these dreams were special. "Been a while, Freddo."

"It has." Fred's eyes sparkled in the dark. "I'm always around, you know... but you seem to be doing pretty damned well, buddy."

George sighed, leaning back against the wall with his hands behind his head. "I'm trying. Alf is perfect, you know."

"I would certainly hope not!" Fred's eyebrows arched. "I won't have any son of mine doing a Percy routine! Deadly dull, for one, and 'sides, Percy nearly cracked up from it."

George laughed with him. "Perfect to me, Fred? Or how about, perfectly normal?"

"Perfectly happy, perfectly loved." Fred said, pointedly. "And do you really think you'd have been in a place to do that if you'd been living with a portrait of my handsome face talking to you every day?" Fred leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You mourned me for so long, George. I can't blame you, I know perfectly well how messed up I would have been if roles were reversed. But the thought scares me of how long it would have taken you to start living again if a likeness of me had been preserved. You probably never would have grown so close to Ron, for one. Never would have grown beyond your past. And without being able to do that, do you think that Ron, or Harry even, would have backed you up on custody?"

"Maybe not." George admitted. "And you're right...I might very well have gone more barmy than I already was." He cast a sheepish glance at Fred. "You're not upset about that soccer injury, are you? I had this dream."

Fred scoffed. "And an actual dream it was. Why would I be mad at you about an accident? Just happy that it all ended up alright, bro."

George relaxed significantly. "Don't suppose you could let me know who cured him, Fred? I'd love to find a way to thank them, but the Americans are denying everything. Or maybe you can tell me what secret mission your progeny seems to be on?"

Fred just smiled at him, the twinkle in his eye becoming more pronounced.

George huffed. "Be that way, then!" He grumbled. Then, another thought occurred to him. "Do you ever visit Alf like this, Fred?"

A spasm of pain filtered over his brother's face. "No." He admitted, seeming suddenly sad. "I can't, George. I didn't know him in life, you see. It just doesn't work that way."

"But..." George frowned. "Nearly Headless Nick...the Bloody Barren...we never knew them..."

Fred sighed. "They were ghosts, George. And that's rather frowned upon, when you've led what the powers that be consider a full life." He appeared to think for a moment. "Exceptions are made in dire circumstances, but I can't really talk about that. Visiting you in dreams is entirely different from taking a ghostly form, being seen by any and all in broad daylight." His brother looked at him, eyes dulled with sadness. "Besides, I **want** Alf bonding with you. I want youto be his Dad. I can't be there for him, not like he needs. I feel it when you hug him, you know...when you stroke his head, or dry his tears. When you make him laugh, when you wrestle with him in the back yard. He needs a living, breathing, human father, George, just as you needed him. And I'm glad that's happening."

BANG!

George snapped out of his dream far more abruptly than normal; shaken and cold he leapt up and to the window, and then relaxed. O'Malley had fallen over into the rubbish bins…must have been drinking. George cursed the man for interrupting his visit, and wondered how he could have gone out leaving his son alone at home. Stupid idiot didn't appreciate the son he could reach out and touch. And his poor brother…man, Fred didn't deserve that pain.

Rousing himself, he left his room quietly. He paused by the guest room, and heard his father snoring. Then he quietly opened the door and spied Alf, flung back in the deep sleep of a child, the street lamp casting a beam on to his face. He came over and sat, gingerly, on the bed beside him.

"_I'm stroking his hair now, Fred._" George thought, quietly. "_Can you feel that?_" He ran his fingers gently through the flop of hair, and even in his sleep Alf curled over towards him. George bent over towards him, and kissed him tenderly in the middle of his forehead. "_Did you feel that_?"

Alf blinked awake momentarily. He smiled at George. "'vrythin' Okay, Dad?"

"Everything's fine. Just...your father loves you, very much." He whispered, still stroking his hair. And then he panicked, for a second...would Alf think he was in some way denying him as a son by saying that?

"I know." Alf smiled, closing his eyes and leaning in to the touch. "Both of you." He said, easing George's mind. "'n I love you back." Within seconds he was sound asleep once more.

A feeling of peace enveloped George like he'd never quite felt before, a lightness that could have let him fly with no broom. He knew, then, that Fred had in fact been there the entire time.


	8. Ch 8, December 2008 III

December 23...

Arthur, unable to contain his excitement, had been up at 6am and spent an hour or so roaming the house, trying very hard indeed not to get into any mischief. Not an easy task at all, and he was actually relieved when he heard George rise...no doubt his son fearing that he would inadvertently blow something up. If in fact muggle objects did such things...though they must. Alf had gone six shades of gray when he'd attempted to put the frying pan into the micro-crave last night.

George had put the coffee on and managed to get him a cup of tea, before beginning to assemble breakfast. Arthur figured now was as good a time as any...

"So...will this Michelle be coming to dinner for Christmas?"

George smiled at him from over his frying pan, where he was diligently working on strawberry crepes. "Subtle, Dad. Mom put you up to that one?"

"She did." Arthur made no attempt to deny it, though he pretended to be interested in the local paper. "I think she is both excited at the prospect of more grandchildren and absolutely terrified that her baby would be taken advantage of by some wanton woman. To paraphrase, of course."

George snorted back a laugh. "Yet she seems unconcerned that Charlie is routinely being taken advantage of by wanton women...quite willingly, from all that I can see."

"I think she's given Charlie up as a bad bet." He cast him a sly glance. "I don't hear you getting offended about the grandchildren remark, George."

Arthur watched with amusement at the blush that slowly spread over his son's face, even while he pretended to be obsessed with the proper plating of Breakfast. Finally, he turned back to his father. "I like her, Dad." He said softly, suddenly unable to meet his eye. "A lot."

Arthur felt a warmth rising in his chest. He'd had the happiest of marriages himself...albeit one not without its share of drama. That was the nature of the times in which they lived. And nothing made him happier than knowing that his children had made happy marriages as well. Bill and Fleur, totally wrapped up in each other. Percy and Penelope...who else but Penni could have seen through Percy's fussiness and moods? Ron and Hermione, Ginny and Harry...both matches seeming to have been formed by destiny itself. Charlie, he didn't worry about. He was the real wild one in the bunch, always had been, and one day he would find someone to tame him, though Arthur doubted it would be for some time to come.

George had been a worry. George, always so much more sensitive, so much more a homebody, than most people knew. George, still mourning his twin, seeming hesitant about letting anybody in, and with physical scars to boot. Well, after the boy'd told Arthur about what Angelina had really done, that was less surprising, but still, Arthur had wanted desperately for his gentle son to find a soul mate. Alf was terrific, a complete boon to the family and to George in particular, but children grew up and moved on, or at least they did if you were any kind of parent at all.

"So, can I take that to mean that she WILL be joining us for Christmas?" Arthur said, allowing George some time to recover from his embarrassment.

"Yes...along with Rufus, the wonder dog." George said, relaxing on seeing his father not becoming too crazy about the whole thing. "She's coming over on Christmas Eve...was quite charmed when I told her we traditionally decorated the tree that night..." George's blush returned. "She will quite probably not be going home."

Arthur sensed George waiting for some kind of explosion, which might very well have come had Molly been there. But Arthur wasn't going to do that. First of all, George was quite clearly a grown adult and this was his house; and secondly, he knew his son. The fact that the relationship had escalated to this point merely told him that George considered it quite serious indeed.

"And have you bought her something?" Arthur asked, watching George's color return to normal.

"I have!" George hesitated, and then got up excitedly and ran to the cupboard, pulling out a small box. Opening it, he showed Arthur proudly a pair of exquisitely crafted earrings, spirals of gold that ended in a single jewel, which was emerald. "She has green eyes." He added, by way of explanation.

"Perfect, George!" Arthur said, holding them out at arms-length.

George exhaled, as if he had passed some test. "I think so...I mean, I wasn't sure jewelry was really appropriate...we've known each other as friends since I moved here, but only been seeing each other a few weeks...still...anything less seemed wrong."

"I am sure she will love them." Arthur closed the box gently, and looked at George once more; his son had suddenly become pensive once again. "She clearly has excellent taste."

George managed a smile. "You're biased." And then, as he sat down and sipped at his coffee, "Do you think it's a bad thing that she's a muggle, Dad?"

Arthur nearly choked on his tea. "Good lord, Son...ask ME that question?"

George chuckled. "Oh, I know how you are about muggles...still, living in a world of fair play and magical-muggle unity is one thing, and having one of your kids marrying one is something else!" And he sighed. "Really, that wasn't exactly what I was asking, anyway...I mean, do you think it can work? It has been hard on me, these past months, living this life, even though I've made the best of it. Could SHE be happy living out of her own world?"

Arthur looked at George, so serious, so worried. He smiled at him with reassurance. "If you had to keep living this way, would you make the best of it, for Alf's sake?"

"Of course I would!" George answered, immediately.

"Right. Because you love him." Arthur didn't say anything else, but let that sink in. "Remarkable food, son...if you're not careful, your mum will pass on the responsibility for family meals to you."

George snorted, although he seemed pleased both with the compliment and with Arthur's common sense response to the situation with Michelle. "So, Dad...care to come tree shopping with Alf and I this morning? If you're good..." He teased. "We can stop at a muggle diner for lunch!"

Arthur laughed. "You are enjoying this far too much, Georgie...but yes, let's get you a tree!"

WWWWWWWWW

_December 23, England..._

Ron Weasley was exhausted.

He'd been thrilled, moved beyond belief, when George had asked him to take over the store, had given him partnership. There wasn't much in this world that could have meant more to him than that, and he cared, so much, about doing George proud, of making sure he never regretted his generous decision, that he was near to working himself to the bone to ensure that the store was doing well.

It was doing beyond well, actually. They were earning record profits. Ron knew that he'd never be the creative genius George was, but he _was _a damned fine businessman. And periodically George did send him little ideas, notes for future products, questions on what the customers seemed to be buying most of. His letters were also filled with high praise for the financial reports Ron sent along, words of encouragement, and then many, many stories of George's muggle life and the amazing things that were happening around him.

But Ron didn't really believe George. There was a part of him that felt like it wasn't more than a pat on the head, "Nice job, Baby Brother." Surely George couldn't actually be that happy with the job he'd done?

Ron had always been last. The baby. The sixth son of seven, the one who looked above him and saw three prefects, two head boys, a quidditch captain and a pair of the most irrepressible pranksters known to humanity. They'd all been good students, all been talented in a variety of ways, even Percy. Ron had _never _felt like he'd fit in.

When he was little, all he'd wanted to be was a twin. A part of Fred-and-George. They were closest in age, and usually seemed to have more time for him, even if that time had been taken up in pranking him. And they always had each other, never without a friend and a partner in crime. He'd have done anything for them, even covering up when one of them (or both, more likely) got into trouble. He would have willingly made that unbreakable vow just to be a part of them, and had been beyond upset when they'd been punished, afraid that they'd never forgive him. (He'd been shocked that they seemed to be nicer to him after that, although they went after Charlie with a vengeance).

When they'd started the joke shop, it had killed him with envy. He talked about being an auror, and indeed, he'd wanted to fight Death Eaters and protect his family. But the joke shop...that made him practically drool. He could see doing that for the rest of his life, in a time of peace, with happy families exclaiming over unimagined merchandise. But he didn't think Fred and George would ever let him near the place, except as a customer.

And then Fred died, and everything changed.

He had been devastated, had cried bitter tears to Hermione at losing Fred, and at what he knew it was going to do to George. He thought he might understand the two of them better than anybody else, and could feel the deep, black despair coming from George in waves. And it was Hermione who had urged him to be strong for George, to cry to her but to be his brother's rock. She'd never complained about the missed dates and the hours Ron spent caring for his brother, never done other than encourage him when he pushed George into the lab, helped get the shop up and running, made sure that George kept a purpose in life.

When George had asked him to work with him as a manager, just a year after Fred's death, it had been everything he'd ever wanted. When George just last August had made him partner, it had flummoxed him. It seemed wrong, somehow, to have gotten where he was because Fred had died.

So he worked, and worked, and worked...twelve hour days and more...because he wasn't going to screw this up.

He'd locked up for the evening...the last few days before Christmas were always insane, and the store was a shambles. It was only to clean up a bit, and then maybe do the books...and perhaps, then, prepare for tomorrow...that he was still there. So it surprised him to hear the magical doorbell ring.

"Closed!" Ron yelled, looking towards the glass. And then he came up in surprise.

Draco Malfoy was looking through the window, and waving at him to be let in.

He went to the door, and hesitated. Grimly he thought that if somebody'd have told him he'd be doing this when he was at Hogwarts, he'd still be laughing. With a sigh, he opened the door. "Sorry, er...Draco...we've shut up about an hour ago."

"And yet you're still here, I see." Draco walked in, peeling fine leather gloves from his hand. "I wanted to pick up a special toy for my son...Ron..." He emphasized the name. "But more than that, I wanted to have a drink with you. If you'll accept."

"I...you...what..." Ron muttered, uncomprehending.

Draco smirked. "I hardly expected to be able to render you speechless any longer. Come, it's been a long time since we were at school." He came over to the counter, and produced an exceptionally fine vintage of firewhiskey, the sort of stuff that cost easily four or five hundred galleons. "From what once was my father's private stock. He loved his whiskey collection more than he's ever loved me, which is why I am taking great joy in sharing it with you."

Ron actually laughed, then, and, tired as he was, he figured what the hell? Draco was helping Alf, after all; George would no doubt approve. He conjured up a pair of ice-filled glasses, and Draco poured.

They toasted each other in respectful silence, and Ron savored the exquisite brew. Draco seemed to be studying him carefully, but he didn't care...Ron had always considered himself an open book.

"So..." Draco spoke with great thought. "Two days before Christmas, and it's 8pm, and you're sitting alone in a store in Diagon Alley?"

"I know." Ron shrugged. "It's a lot of work, this place is, and I don't want it to go to seed at all. A lot of responsibility now I'm partner."

"I can imagine." Draco nodded. He leaned forward on one elbow. "George a tough boss then? Real slave driver?"

"George?" Ron chuckled lightly. "Nah, he's terrific...working with him is hardly work at all, no matter how busy we are."

"Ah. But it's different now, with him not here?" Draco asked.

Ron frowned, not quite sure what Draco was getting at. "Well, a bit more work for me, but Percy's come by when he's been free, and Verity is doing a great job managing the Hogsmead branch, but I just feel so much more responsible."

"Mmm." Draco ran his finger thoughtfully around his whiskey glass. "Will it shock you totally if I tell you I've always been envious of your family?"

Ron nearly spluttered out his drink, but that would have been too sad a waste. "Geroff."

"Is it so surprising? I mean, I know I behaved a complete prat towards the lot of you, but you have to remember I sorted in to Slytherin for a reason. Cunning is a useful tool, Ron. Behind it all, though, who would have preferred my family over yours? I never saw my father, he was too busy with whatever business it was he claimed to have, and when I did see him it was rarely pleasant. My mother went from tea to nail appointment to shopping without giving me a thought. I had no brothers, although I had every proper toy money could by. Fat lot of good it was when you were alone." Draco gave a theatrical shrug. "And by the time I got to Hogwarts I knew the only way I could please my father was to take the dark mark. You can't imagine..." Draco's eyes were momentarily haunted. "Well, no I guess you really can't, can you? Your family is so damned supportive of each other it used to make me ill."

Now Ron was watching Draco curiously. "Look, water under the bridge and all that, I suppose. But I don't really understand why you're telling me all this. Do you want to bring Scorpius by to the house, so he'll have a playmate himself? Fine enough with me, you know...and Rosie would probably enjoy it too..."

Draco looked momentarily taken aback. "Thank you. That's...unexpected. But not my point. Actually, Ron, I'm here because, well, frankly I think you've forgotten what makes you a Weasley."

"Excuse me?" Ron snorted. "What, Red hair?"

"Family." Draco became serious. "You do recall that you have one?"

Ron pulled up quickly, glaring. "I beg your pardon, _Malfoy?_"

Draco matched him. "Weasley...you do realize that I have seen your wife more in the past week than you have in the past month?"

Ron felt jealous rage boil within him. "If you even consider touching her..." He sputtered out.

"Oh for God's sake..." Draco rose. "Hermione has been in love with you from the moment she set foot on Hogwarts grounds...it was the worst kept secret in our year, except from you, idiot." He crossed his arms before him. "What I am trying to tell you is that she misses you. That she knows you want to work hard to prove yourself to George, but that she is at home with two small children, still working part time for the ministry, trying to help me find a cure for Alf, and she misses you. Can I be any more exact?"

"And she told you this, did she?" Ron seethed.

"Not out loud. Some of us can see between the lines. Some of us always could." Draco suddenly deflated. "I would still give my right arm to switch places with you, sometimes. I go home at night to a criminally insane father, an iceberg of a wife, and a vacant mother. Only my son gives me any hope at all." Draco shook his head. "Hermione wants you, Ron. But you're not there. And just like the Yule ball, someday she'll be tired of waiting for you if you're not careful."

Ron was nearly trembling with rage. "I have a job to do. Hermione knows that. She's always known that."

"Of course she does." Draco snapped back. Then, forcing himself to stay composed, he asked more pointedly. "Tell me, Ron, if Alf weren't forced into hiding, if George were here, where do you think he'd be right now? Performing unnecessary clean-up on a store that will be in chaos by 10:05 tomorrow morning? Going over exceptional numbers in pristine books to discover a half sickle variance? Or out in the snow, playing with his son? Here, or at your mother's house helping trim the tree? Working himself to death, or enjoying every moment of life that he has?"

The words hit Ron with the force of a two-by-four, and he blinked. "But...but I don't want to let him down...you don't understand..."

Draco relaxed, and poured another round. "I think maybe you don't understand." He shrugged. "Hermione told me with such pride about George making you partner. He didn't do that because of your business acumen, although no doubt it helped. He did it because when he needed a friend, a brother, you were there for him. I don't think there is anything you could do that would let him down. The business is running well, is it not?"

"Well, yes, we're up 75 from last year..." Ron mumbled.

Draco started to laugh. "I think I can safely say that you won't be disappointing George!"

Suddenly the absurdity of it struck Ron as well. "Blimey, when I actually say it out loud..." Ron found himself laughing too. "Hell...I'm a fool."

"Welllll..." Draco drawled out slowly. "Not that I'm suggesting anything, but as your wife and I were leaving our last research meeting, we went past Riquelli's Jewelers, and I noticed her eyeing a necklace with a mystic topaz in the center..."

Ron mulled that over. "With a 75 increase in revenue, I could do diamonds."

Draco smirked at him. "**My** wife would insist on diamonds, Ron, because of what they cost. Yours wants topaz because she thought it was a beautiful necklace."

Ron found himself blushing. "Right...right...She's never been about the money." He rose suddenly. "You wanted something for Scorpius, you said..." Ron darted away to an aisle of stuffed toys, specialty items for the toddler set. "This one's Rosie's favorite..."

He handed Draco a stuffed dragon, cartoonish in feature. The eyes glowed and when hugged it gave off a little puff of light smoke. But more than that, it sang, happy, clapping songs when it sensed the child was playful, gentle lullabies when the child was tired, and soothing songs when the child was upset.

Draco's eyes lit up. "It's brilliant, Ron." He whispered, picturing Scorpius' face when he brought it home.

"Tell George it's brilliant...of course, he has more than his share of willing guinea pigs in his nieces and nephews." Ron smiled genuinely. "But it's even better than brilliant...here..." He passed Draco a medallion with a dragon on it. "That's the best part. Once the toy bonds with your son's magic, if he's in any danger...fire, wayward pomegranate carts, you get the idea...this medallion will actually roar. Parent's best friend, that is."

Draco immediately dug for his wallet, but Ron stopped him. "On the house, Draco."

Draco paused and studied him. "What happened to the sharp business man, Ron?"

Ron laughed. "He just drank about a hundred galleons worth of your firewhiskey. Now let me get out of here...the jewelers are open until 9pm and I can just get there before it closes."

WWWWWWWWWW

December 24

George was trying, very hard, to ignore the commotion that was coming from the living room. He was hard at work on a set of sweet potato pies with a pecan maple topping that he planned on sending back to England as a surprise for his Mum, with a little help from the American ministry. He was nearly finished, but the background noise was frankly starting to worry him.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to let Alf and his Dad get the tree ready by themselves?

Not that there was much to get ready. He was holding off on the decorations until Michelle came over that night. And the tree itself was very nearly beyond help. He hadn't realized that muggles had the tendency to put their trees up earlier than Christmas eve. Heck, he'd thought they'd been jumping the gun buying the thing on the twenty-third, until he'd gotten to the tree farm and all he, Alf and Arthur could find was the most pathetic specimen of evergreen imaginable.

"Amazing!" He heard Arthur exclaim. "One goes out, they all go out!"

Alf answered with a giggle.

_He's going to electrocute himself...and then what do I say to Mum?_ "Dad, if you injure yourself, I swear I will get Mum over here to deal with you herself!" He called out.

"Of course, George." His father answered him back. "I'm sure she'd love the opportunity to meet Michelle."

George felt his face flush, and he rubbed his forehead vigorously.

"Ooooh, look...it flashes! And different colors! How did they figure that out?"

"Careful, Gramps...you're tangled up."

"What about this extra plug? Doesn't it need the ekkeltricity too?"

"No...see, you put another string in the end here and then..." Alf's voice faded out.

"AH! Brilliant! One feeds the other..."

_Oh, bugger this! I knew I shouldn't have let the two of them go to the store _together. That morning, Arthur had bemoaned the lack of holiday accoutrements, and Alf had suggested they head to the local department store. George had protested needing to finish his pies, and Arthur had, rather sternly, informed him that he'd been driving since well before George was born and could certainly handle a seven block trip. Alf had chimed in that he would be on hand to take care of the money issues. It was with a sense of defeat that he'd tossed Arthur the keys to the car.

They'd been back an hour now, Alf merely sticking his head in the kitchen to say they were handling everything and George should just finish his pies and not worry. Which of course, made him do just that.

With a sigh, he dusted his hands off on the towel, slid the last pie into the oven, and headed, with some trepidation, into the living room. "What in the blazes are you two up to..."

George came to a sharp stop and stood, open-mouthed, at the scene before him.

It was like the living-room exploded...there were festoons of flaming red shiny garland everywhere, and hanging wall decorations on every square inch of space, ranging from bells to some kind of red-nosed animal to a variety of St. Nicks. A whole row of candles blazed on the mantle, and a moving, four foot figurine of a snowman became animated as he walked in, doffing his top hat, and shouting, for some reason, "Happy Birthday!"

But that wasn't what had him stunned.

Arthur...his FATHER...was in the middle of the room, covered, himself, in what seemed to be over a thousand mini-lights. Some flashed rapidly, some slowly, and some not at all, in a multitude of colors. Alf had the other end of the string and was beginning to wind it into the...tree?

"Dad?" George said weakly. "The tree...what did you DO?"

What had been about four and a half feet of scraggy pine, was now a magnificent spruce, lush and full, the top of which was just enough shy of the ceiling to permit a tree topper.

"It'll be great when we're done..." Alf beamed at him.

"There's more?" His voice went up a decibel at the last word.

"Now, George..." His father's voice was soothed, in the same way George had seen him try to manage Molly, and he felt his blood pressure rising rapidly.

Before he could say anything, Alf spoke rather timidly. "Dad?" His voice was just a tad weak. "Don't you _like_ it?"

George deflated, looking at Alf's imploring face and his father's excited one, and he gave up, going over to his son. "Need help with that, kiddo? We should probably start from the top down..." He grabbed his son about the middle and lifted him up to his shoulders. "Argh...you're getting heavy!"

Alf giggled. "Your cooking!"

Resigned to spending the next week in a Las Vegas Christmas nightmare, George gave in and laughed as his father spun on the spot to unwind the multitude of lights as Alf took care of getting them around the tree.

WWWWWWWW

That afternoon, as a courier from the ministry of magic waited, he added a brief note in with his pies for Molly...

_Mum...just wanted to send these over to you. I understand that you are rather skeptical of my ability to keep Alf well fed, despite Charlie's reports, so I'd hoped that these would put your fears to rest._

_More than that, though, can I just say I finally appreciate the forbearance you showed throughout my childhood in not hexing all of us...including Dad...into oblivion? _

_Love you...and miss you all._

_PS...take my advice...never leave the Christmas decorating in the hands of a ten year old and his electricity-obsessed Grandfather!_


	9. Ch 9, December 2008, IV

George met Michelle at the door that evening. Rufus bounded into the house at once, to be greeted by Alf; she handed him a plate of cookies, a pitcher of just made eggnog, and reached over to kiss him. He leaned in as close as he could while burdened, and said with a whisper. "Be kind…I warned you Dad was eccentric, and, well, Alf _is_ ten."

So prepared, Michelle took her coat off in the living room, gazing around at the festoons with a lopsided smile. "Stunning work, gentlemen…" Alf took her jacket with a grin, and Arthur came over to be introduced. George felt a strange moment of worry, but Arthur was at his civil best and totally charming, and he soon heard Michelle laughing with him.

He went to the kitchen and returned with glasses of the spiked eggnog for everyone save Alf, who had his own version. Michelle, when he got back, was leaning in to inhale the scent of pine, deeply and with great joy. "I can't believe you got this just yesterday...most of the ones left look scraggy. This is perfect."

"I know, it's like magic!" Alf teased, scooting behind her for a cookie. George half heartedly thwacked him on the side of the head. Alf mock-winced, but grinned back at him anyway. Arthur coughed to cover a laugh.

Michelle, meanwhile, was digging in one two bags she'd brought. "I know you said you didn't have too many decorations..." She looked around with a smirk and shook her head. "For the tree, anyway, so I thought I'd help out..." She pulled out a rope of popcorn and cranberries, strung together on needle and thread, and Alf eagerly helped her wind the natural garland around the tree.

"Wonderful!" Arthur exclaimed. "I had thought that was rather a more...erm...English...tradition."

Shell paused for a moment, and seemed to consider her words. "I had a fairly old fashioned family, I guess. They never took to the more commercial holiday decorations." She nudged Alf. "There's more in the bag, buddy."

The boy excitedly went digging, pulling out oranges studded with cloves and real pine cones that had been just barely tipped with silver glitter. George added in some hand knit ornaments that his mum had sent over...miniature stockings she'd made with bright red yarn laced with gold. He rather wished she could have sent a lawn gnome over as well...now that was a tree topper that was really in Fred's memory!...but probably not appropriate to explain that to Michelle. So a simple angel, made of white tissue paper, was placed at the top. George felt very pleased with it…the homespun tree much more his style.

Of course, there was ONE muggle element...and it was with great glee (and the watchful help of Alf) that Arthur crawled under the tree to plug in the string of a thousand lights. He had to admit, the effect was something when it came to life, and the four of them just stood back and admired, with Rufus sprawled at the active fireplace behind them.

Alf looked up at him. "Can we put out presents now?" He asked, hopeful.

"Absolutely not." George intoned seriously. "Christmas morning!"

Alf sighed dramatically, but leaned back against him. "Can I take Rufus out for a walk, then?"

"That, yes...if it's okay with Shell." George gave permission.

"The leash is hanging with my coat, Alf." The active child scrambled to take the mutt out, much to his delight; suddenly Arthur rose as well. "I think I shall join them for a few moments…"

Michelle and George watched them leave; only after the door was shut did she turn to him with understanding eyes. "Room must have given you a heart-attack, George!" She came over to him and accepted his hug, and they stood together watching the lights twinkle on the tree.

He could hold her forever, he thought, wistfully. "Very nearly…it's growing on me, though." He inhaled the scent of her hair happily. In the background a radio played a variety of Christmas tunes, some he was familiar with, and some not. He sipped his eggnog, and smirked as his new favorite came on…forcing his tenor voice to new lows, he sang along, with a few appropriate changes…

_You're a mean one…Mr. Butch_

_You really are unreal,_

_As a coach you're quite a looser, you're as charming as an eel, Mr. Butch,_

_And if I had an hour, I'd tell you what I feel!_

"Oh, George, stop…O'Malley is so pathetic he's hardly even fair game!" But she laughed, covering her mouth and turning in his arms. "You kill me."

"Amuse…" George reminded her. "I believe that is what you decided. I amuse you." He looked down into her eyes warmly, and her face softened.

"I love you…" She nearly half whispered, before she could think better of it and hold the words back.

George felt everything inside of him tremble then. "Love you too." He bent forward and their lips met, and he gave himself in to the moment. Soon, he knew, Alf would come in, with Rufus and his Dad, and the controlled chaos of his life would return. But he'd take these seconds, every one of them, for what they were worth, and not look back.

WWWWWWWWWWWW

George thought Alf would be the one up early Christmas morning, but his eyes shot open at 5:55 and would not close. Michelle was curled up soundly beside him, and he slid out from the sheets, grabbing his robe and tip-toeing down the stairs quietly. A thrill ran through him that he'd not felt in years on Christmas day, an excitement for the promise of laughter and joy. Rufus picked up his head, and immediately followed him down the stairs.

He checked first in the living room, and then stooped to plug in the lights. The great beast of a tree covered a bursting number of gifts; Molly had gone quite overboard, there'd been a giant box from the rest of the family, and he'd gathered a fair number himself for Alf and for Dad, in addition to Michelle. He restlessly reorganized a few gifts, and then started a crackling fire. It was now 6:15.

He forced himself into the kitchen, got a pot of coffee going, and thought about breakfast. He threw together a French toast casserole and popped it into the oven, and within moments the kitchen began to fill with the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg. Rufus was fed and given a new raw-hide bone. He dusted off his hands and poured a cup of coffee, and looked again at the clock. 6:55.

Wasn't Alf _ever _going to get up?

There was a quiet thump down the stairs, and George looked up eagerly; Alf was indeed coming down the stairs, carefully balancing his own stack of presents in front of him. He stopped short on seeing George, and blushed. "I was trying to get these out before you woke up." He smiled almost shyly. "Merry Christmas!"

It suddenly hit George what Alfred had been up to these past weeks, and why he'd wanted that allowance. "Merry Christmas, kiddo...give you a hand there?"

"You can take the top two...those are for Gramps and Miss Fabry." He said, and then gave him a sly look. "I don't trust you not to shake your own package."

"Who told?" George laughed quietly, following Alf into the living room and helping him place the three parcels. Rufus followed behind them, and thumped himself down into the middle of the floor. Alf sat quietly, far more quietly than George would have expected; he and his brothers would have been diving under the tree for each gift, _and_ shaking each package, and making a huge ruckus until Molly and Arthur came downstairs. But though Alf's eyes shone with anticipation, he was all things considered calm and patient. George went back into the kitchen for his coffee, and a hot chocolate for his son; by the time he got back Alf was nearly half laying under the tree, leaning against the happy dog, and staring dreamily into space. George sat on the floor beside him, and gently stroked his head. "Every thing okay there, Alf?"

Alf smiled up at him, and shifted so he was now leaning against George. "Yeah..." He said, softly. "I was just thinking how lucky I was."

"I'm the lucky one." George corrected, squeezing him close, and suddenly grateful for a few moments alone with his son before the pandemonium of gift-opening.

Alf just kept smiling, watching the lights on the tree. "It's just, last year...Mum was so sick. We all knew it would probably be her last Christmas, or at least I was pretty sure of it. I think my step-father was in complete denial. Anyway, she was in bed the whole time, and he was being pretty shitty to me, and my half brother seemed to be purposely trying to get me into trouble...I ended up spending most of the day by her bedside while she slept. And I was so scared, because I knew she was going and I just didn't know where I'd end up, or what would happen." He swallowed hard. "She woke up later, and said she wanted to tell me Harry Potter stories. I let her, I'd have let her do anything just to hear the sound of her voice." Alf took a swallow of the hot chocolate, still deep in his thoughts. "The story she most wanted to tell me was the one about The Weasley Twins, and the last stand against professor Umbridge." George gave a little chuckle. "I think that even then she planned on my being here this Christmas." Alf looked around. "Well, maybe not here, in the sense of a muggle house in America, but with you." He looked up at George. "Do you think she knows I'm here, and I'm happy? That I'm okay?"

George wrapped his arms around him, resting his chin on his head. "I'm sure of it, Alf...as sure as I am that your Dad meant for us to be together."

They enjoyed a few moments of silence together, with the only sound coming from Rufus slobbering happily on his bone. Alf spoke tentatively. "The other night, was I dreaming, or did you come into my room?"

George smiled down at him. "I did. _I_ had a dream of sorts, and I just needed to tell you that I loved you. I didn't think you remembered."

Alf took a deep breath. "Yeah, well, the thing is..." He exhaled. "I could have sworn there were two of you there. You were with Fred, I mean. That's why I thought I was dreaming. But I could see you clear as day, and him...it was like a shadow with you, but it was there. Am I barmy?"

George shook slightly, but hell, there were stranger things in this world, weren't there? "I felt him with me then, too." He said, gently.

"Oh." Alf chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. "Are your dreams really dreams, Dad...or are they something more?"

George gave him a little squeeze. "I used to think they were just dreams, just my way of visiting Fred in my mind, my way of keeping him alive. But now...some of them are something more, Alf. Sometimes I know I'm really communicating with him, and he's really there with me. Usually it's when I'm worried or concerned."

Alf gave a little sigh. "So...why don't I dream about my Mum, then? Is it because of my magic?" He whispered the last word.

George felt his son tremble slightly, and kissed him on the temple, hoping to sooth him. "I didn't dream about your dad at all for more than six years, Alf. I had _nightmares _of course, ones where I relived his terrible death and that whole ugly day. Then, about four years ago, I'd have occasional happy dreams, memories of our childhood, of things that we did, pranks that we played. They hurt, though...sometimes they made me miss him more. On occasion there would be dreams where I could sense him reaching out to me, trying to get through my thick skull to help me heal, but I was too emotionally shut down to hear him. It wasn't until you came into my life that something inside me seemed to open up...something that could let him in." George paused, waiting for Alf to respond in some way.

The boy sighed quietly. "I don't think I understand..."

George tilted Alf's head up to look him in the eye. "I think, when you are ready to see her in your dreams, you will...but whether you do or not doesn't change the fact that she's there...she's with you all the time; she's with you right now, just like Fred is with us both. They're always there, even if we're not always smart enough to know it."

Alf managed a smile, calming down considerably. "So...if he's here right now, what would he be saying?" He asked.

"He is..." George tickled him lightly, poking Alf in the ribs. "Going absolutely batty that we are calmly sitting under a loaded Christmas tree and letting your Grandfather sleep in!"

Alf squirmed and laughed, lightly, at first, and then out loud. Rufus poked his head up, and the snowman in the corner suddenly yelled Happy Birthday. The boy leapt up, with the dog following suit. He grabbed George by the hand, pulling him up, and George tossed Rufus's bone towards the kitchen; the great beast scrambled after it with a clatter of nails and excited woofs, while George forcefully turned on the radio, blaring "Jingle Bell Rock" and joining in. Alf ran to the foot of the stairs and yelled up: "Gramps! Miss Fabry! Dad wants me to WAKE YOU UP!"

"Oi!" George yelled, grabbing Alf, and swinging him about. "You were supposed to take the blame for that...they can't get mad at YOU!"

"Like we wouldn't have known who put him up to it!" Michelle called down, laughing, as she emerged from her room. Arthur was right behind.

"Feel lucky we got to sleep to 7:30..." Arthur admitted, as Alf hugged him while George embraced Michelle. "I strongly doubt the family back home made it past six am!"

WWWWWWWWWWW

Christmas Dinner at the Burrow was just winding down. Molly felt the absence of three keenly, but she hid it very deeply. It was, after all, no where near as bad as the loss of Fred had been...that loss had been permanent. This, this was just her George being away for a little while with young Alf, and Arthur taking care of them. And Molly had become expert at hiding her worries and fears most of the time, though there were moments...she remembered that Bogart back at Order headquarters, and shuddered.

So her family thought she was bracing up very well. And after all, she was still feeding seventeen people, if one counted the little ones. But it was frustrating not to be able to firecall them (Arthur had been stern with her about that; George's muggle girlfriend would be present and would not probably take well to the sudden appearance of a disembodied head in the fireplace.) She'd huffed that if George were going to be with this person long term they should get used to magic, _and soon_, but Arthur had quelled her with a _"George is happy, dear. And I think we can trust him to time everything for the best, hm?"_ So she sucked it up as well.

And now it was time for dessert. Charlie had told her George was a wonderful cook now, but really, Charlie would eat raw dragon-hide if he were hungry enough. Still, it was rather cute for Georgie to send her those pies...all four of them...and of course the charming note which had made her chuckle. Naturally she would serve George's dessert...and woe be it for any family member to mock his well meaning attempts. She swept to the table and began to pass out plates for everyone.

"Sweet potato?" Ron sniffed warily. "Who would make a pie out of that?"

"Ronald!" Molly said, sternly. "We need to encourage George!"

"Encourage, nothing...he's bloody brilliant!" Charlie swapped for a larger piece of pie, and dug in immediately.

Almost everyone else just sat there, staring at it, as if waiting for it to explode or turn into spinach or something. Well, really, with George that wasn't an impossibility, but still...

Victoire stuck her chin out, and immediately followed Charlie's lead. Bless her little heart, she'd always been particularly fond of her Uncle George. Molly watched as she took that first bite, and then... Victoire's face changed. Her eyes widened. And, like Charlie, she ate with gusto. Dear sweet Girl!

"Well, go on...if Victoire can be a grown up about it, so can the rest of you!" Molly scolded.

Everyone took a tentative bite then...except for Charlie, who'd finished his and was now cutting himself a second slice. And the strangest thing happened.

Each and every adult at her table...from Bill down to Ginny, stopped at one bite, got the same curious look on their faces, and paused, looking at each other, as if wondering what, exactly, to say. Each and every child at her table old enough to hold a fork, was now eating like they were afraid the plate was going to be wrested from them.

_Well, really!_ Molly was exasperated. _If the pie is that bad, I should expect my children to show as much courtesy as my grand children, for heaven's sake! Can't they even show a little decency and humor George?_ Molly resolutely took a bite of her own pie.

And then she paused.

It was good.

It was better than good.

It was possibly the best thing she'd ever tasted.

And then the horror...and the befuddled looks of her adult children...became clear to her.

It was better than anything Molly herself had ever made. But nobody wanted to tell her that.

They all started to speak at once, starting with Ginny. "Not bad...crust could perhaps be a bit better done..." Harry: "Mmmrmmp...oh, yea...the crust is a little too flakey for my taste" Ron: "Whayoutalkinbou' Harry...this is..." Hermione nudged him. "Oh, yeah, Mum...pecans are too crunchy." Fleur: "Eeet is obviously very fattening, all this cream and sugar and butter, mmmm..."

Charlie looked around like they were nuts. "Are you all daft? This is ruddy _wonderful_!" Bill immediately reached over and thwacked Charlie in the head.

Molly took another bite. "Bill, Charlie's right."

Every adult at the table stopped, and looked at her in shock.

She swirled the creamy filling around in her mouth, identifying each spice. "Nutmeg...freshly ground...good on George for not scrimping there...whole cream too...pie crust is absolutely perfect...he must have worked quite hard on that. Well, I'd have never thought sweet potatoes...I know it's an American thing...but excellent, really...he should start selling this in the shop when he comes back."

Ginny spoke first. "Mum...you're okay with this?"

Molly smiled. "Well, really, dear, now that I think about it, all those skiving snackboxes...they'd have hardly sold so well if they tasted terrible, would they? And that background work, the base, that was George's creation. Really, I should have known he had it in him. And if he can do that in a muggle kitchen..." She gave a light chuckle. "I'll certainly be expecting him to help me out NEXT Christmas, that's all I can say."

There was a relieved burble around the table as everyone now felt free to honestly enjoy their pie.

Molly made a point of not leaving the table for at least half an hour, and then she excused herself and ran up to the attic. She headed to an old trunk, long buried at the back of the junk filled space, and rummaged around in it until she found a special notebook.

Her Grandmother Hattie's recipe book.

It had long been Molly's most treasured item. Hattie had been a wonderful, extraordinary cook, and Molly had spent hours at her side, learning every dish she made. It had been a passion with Molly from the moment she first picked up a spoon, and had stood her in excellent stead through a growing family that had to be kept nourished on modest means. She had all these dishes memorized now, and had always planned on passing the book down to her daughter.

Only Ginny, bless her dear heart, had as much talent for cooking as Molly did for singing. Her daughter was lovely, sweet and strong and an excellent mother, and certainly was a serviceable cook. But she didn't have the knack, the imagination, the inventiveness, that it took to be truly great at it. Even as a little girl, Ginny had been more interested in playing Quidditch with her brothers than watching Molly make a cheese sauce. So Molly had long ago figured that the book would have to wait, perhaps for Victoire.

Not so, however. Her George..._her George!_ had the gift. And she was going to make sure that _her George_ received his due inheritance...every blessed recipe and trick she knew!

She only hoped that muggle girl of his appreciated what she was getting!

WWWWWWWW

Michelle was curled up on the sofa, in George's arms, quite as happy as she'd ever been. She was wearing her new earrings, which delighted her, as well as the pretty silk scarf young Alf had bought. A movie played in the background, _White Christmas_, and George would occasionally squeeze her hand at some particularly sentimental moment. Alf and Arthur were enjoying one of the boy's presents, a handsome chess set. George, meanwhile, was delighted with his gifts…she'd managed to grab two tickets to the second Red Sox game of the season. As much as George had thrown himself into the sport, he really ought to get a chance to see a game live.

Alf had bought him a Red Sox hat, which he was insistently wearing, tag still on it. Alf had also managed to get him a fine cookbook authored by Rachel Ray, who Michelle liked to tease him about mercilessly. She thought it cute that she could make him blush so easily, though for some reason Arthur seemed particularly amused by the whole banter.

Arthur…it was easy to see why George was the man he was. Occasionally eccentric, yes, but he was a good man, and obviously had been a loving father. She looked forward to meeting the rest of the family, and just hoped that they would accept her, that George would accept her, with her own quirks and all.

She nuzzled on his cheek just slightly. "I really should get going, George…" She whispered. "People will notice if I'm here for seven days straight."

He sighed, but kissed her forehead. "I know…I won't be behind anyone calling you anything improper."

He helped her gather up her gifts, and leash the dog. Alf hugged her goodbye, and then so did Arthur, with an extra squeeze and a whispered, "Thank you, my dear…" that she had a feeling had nothing to do with the model airplane she'd bought him. George walked her home then, through the crunching snow and in the moonlight.

Just as she got to the door, they could hear O'Malley yelling at poor Mike…not nearly as bad as some times in the past, but enough.

"Clean up this damned mess, boy…I didn't let you out of your room to destroy the house!"

George scowled. "I suppose I should be relieved he didn't keep him locked up all day."

"Idiot." She said, squeezing George tight. They waited a few seconds, but quiet seemed to have fallen on the neighborhood once more, and she sighed. "Thanks, George, for being everything that man isn't…"

"I should certainly hope so…" They kissed again, George lingering a moment, before departing, wondering if he could make it to their self-imposed six month deadline for spilling their deepest secrets. He wanted to have her in his life, in all of his life, NOW, and wanted to stop living with this sword over his head. Still, he couldn't force her if she wasn't ready.

But he put that out of his mind. There were still a few things that had to be done this evening, and under the circumstances they couldn't be done with Michelle there.

WWWWWWWWWW

Alf was getting ready for bed when George came in, two packages in hand. "Hey, Dad." He smiled, tired but clearly quite happy.

"Hey." George replied, coming to sit on the bed beside him as Alf crawled between the covers. "Good day, Alf?"

"Excellent." The boy beamed at him. "You know…you don't have to keep the hat on all the time." He teased.

George raised his eyebrows, and then removed the cap with a flourish. "Just breaking it in, Son." With a deep breath, he handed the first package to Alfred. "A few things I still have to give you that…well, that I just couldn't earlier."

Puzzled, Alf accepted the long, flat gift. "You already got me so much…" He murmured, opening the plain brown paper. A thin carved box was inside, and when he lifted the latch on it, he removed what he now recognized to be a wand. "Oh…" He murmured.

"It was your Dad's." George said. "I've been holding on to it these past years, not even sure why. But it should be in your hands, so to speak. You may not be able to use it now, but in any event he'd want you to have it. You ought to have something of his."

Alf didn't say anything for several moments, holding the eleven inches of strong oak reverently, knowing that his father…that Fred, who was with him always…had once held this, had once cast spells with this. For a brief second, Alf thought he felt something stirring deep within him, as if a memory, but it was too quickly gone. He looked up at George with misty eyes. "Thanks. I'll keep it safe."

The second package, a much smaller box, was now handed over, and likewise opened. It contained a simple ring, a tiny gold band intricately carved, with a single ruby in the setting. "Your mum's engagement ring. She gave it back to Fred when they broke up, but he carried it with him everywhere. I don't know why I held on to it, when I thought your Mum had abandoned him, but, well, I just couldn't throw it away. They did love each other, you know, quite deeply. I can wish all I want now that things hadn't gotten so confused, that your Mum had let us take care of the two of you, but done is done."

Alf was looking at the inscription inside the band. "To my Katie…now and forever." He grasped it tightly, and hugged George close. "Thanks…"

"You're welcome." George whispered, kissing him gently. "Now to bed with you, child…you've been up all hours of the day." He grumbled.

"You too!" Alf reminded him, but he allowed himself to be tucked under the covers.

George stole out of the room quietly, and paused, allowing himself to feel Fred's presence, and to smile.


	10. Ch 10, January, ,2009

January 17, 2009…

George chuckled to himself as he sat at the computer.

Funny, this whole writing thing had seemed impossibly hard when he'd first been told what his cover story was. Now that he'd gotten in to it, though, the words sometimes just seemed to flow from him. _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ was now nearing completion. Of course, much of what he knew of Harry's adventures had been hearsay, but sixteen years had given him a lot of time for that hearsay, and time to get to know Harry, and understand how he would have reacted to a lot of the things happening back then.

He had just completed the part about Ron's chess match, with the obvious changes for what his little brother had so clearly exaggerated, when Michelle made him jump about ten feet in the air as she touched his shoulder. Quickly he switched to another screen as he turned to her.

"Didn't hear you come in…" He murmured as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

"So I see…" She teased, running her fingers through his hair. "You were so wrapped up in that novel of yours that a bomb could have gone off and you wouldn't have moved." She slid a chair over next to him, and reached teasingly for the stack of papers beside him, which he immediately moved into a drawer. "You know, I am a teacher, George dear…I would be happy to proof read for you."

"I know." He felt a blush creep up his cheeks. "I'm just not ready for anybody to see it yet." She arched her eyebrows at him, and he found himself stuttering. "Really, Shell, I promise…before I send it to be published I will have you take a look at it…" A safe enough offer…he would never be sending it to be published, not if he wanted to safely enter within a five hundred yard vicinity of Harry ever again!

She crossed her arms and pouted, slightly. "Are you implying that you don't trust me, George?"

"No!" He gasped, before he realized she was teasing. With a sigh, he leaned in to her, touching his forehead against hers. "Please, Shell…I want you to really like it, and I'm just not sure it's good enough."

"You wrote it…" She kissed him lightly. "That's good enough for me…however, I am happy to humor you!" She rose quickly. "Is that the famous chicken goulash I smell?"

George beamed. "It is indeed…Mum's famous recipe, that I cannot begin to believe she sent along…" Warmth and nostalgia filled him. The turn it had given him when he'd opened up that package from Molly, was not to be believed. Hell, even _Ginny_ had never wrangled a recipe from her, and here he got them all, with the clear understanding that these were not to be bandied about to unworthy people. He knew what she was entrusting him with, and the responsibility it entailed, and it awed him.

"I feel obligated to tell you…" Michelle teased, as she set the table. "…that if other women had had the chance to know what you were capable of before I stepped in to your life, you'd have been receiving offers of 'friendship' from about half a dozen different women…"

"None of whom..." He stressed. "Would have had any interest in a one-eared single father before they learned he could cook." He grabbed her waist as she stood at the table, nuzzling her temple.

"Stupid women!" She laughed back at him.

At that moment, Alf tumbled in, Rufus behind him; he'd just taken the dog out for a walk. But his face was abnormally pale, even for him. Immediately Michelle and George spoke together: "What's wrong Alf?"

He looked from one to the other, as he pealed off his gloves. "Commotion at O'Malleys." He said, face pinched. "Not sure exactly what's happening, but I hear a lot of high pitched yelling…sounds like his mum's back from wherever she was."

George sighed, and looked at Michelle, who was downright angry. "Mike's not been looking good in class…pretty damned depressed, actually. I would have expected his Mum being back in town would make him happy…but he was pretty mute today."

"Still no signs of anything actionable?" George asked, concerned.

"No…not on my end. Alf?" She appealed to the boy, who was, after all, Mike's contemporary.

Alf shrugged, in frustration. "He hasn't spoken to me since Christmas, when he decked me."

Michelle sighed. "I'll make a few inquiries later tonight…hell, I may just call social services anyway. I'm worried about that boy."

"Whatever you need…" George looked at her frankly. "You know I'd do it for you…"

"I know." She smiled at him as he removed the casserole from the oven, and she took a seat beside Alf. "I know you well enough, to know that."

WWWWWWW

Later that night, when a worried Michelle had left so that she could try to figure out what to do about Mike O'Malley, George was singing lightly to himself as he finished up a chapter. Just one more to go now, and then…second year, maybe? It would be great, really, to skip to third year and winning the Quidditch cup…although there was more than enough comic fodder in professor Lockhart!

"Dad…" Alf interrupted him, from the sink where he was washing dishes. "Why won't you show Michelle the book? I mean, I know what you told her, but why, really?"

George set his shoulders, but turned and looked at his son, and as often happened, he felt himself melting in that frank, concerned gaze. "I'm scared, Alf. I mean, you and I know this isn't fiction…what if she hates it? What if she thinks it's stupid and pointless and impossible? I don't know what I'd do then."

"You mean," He thought it over. "That if she rejects the novel, it will be like she's rejecting you, before she knows you, really?"

"Yeah." George rubbed at the back of his neck. "I'm pretty sure she'll be okay with the magic thing when I tell her…but to show her this now just seems to be dangerous. And then, there's my ability as a writer to question."

"What are you talking about? You're doing great!" Alf crossed his arms in defiance.

George laughed at him, at how stern his son looked, practically scolding him. "I am doing great for someone who's never written a book before. I am not sure at all that I am doing well for someone who's supposed to be an accomplished author with deep understanding of the history of English mythology."

"Ah." Alf nodded. "Yes, I guess." He put the last dish away. "Still, if you believe she'll be okay with magic, and I think you're right about that, by the way, then maybe the book is a tool for you. Why not have her read it first, and then say to her, guess what, it's real?"

"And you reacted to that method precisely how?" George pointed out.

Alf came up beside him, and gave him a hug. "At first, not well." He admitted. "Eventually, it was all okay. And that's what I think it will be with her."

"I hope you're right." George sighed, beginning to log off for the evening.

"Dad?" Alf asked, rather tentatively. George came over to him by the sink. "Why don't you tell her now? I mean, you clearly want to. It's got to be difficult, just waiting to do it."

George turned to him with a sad smile. "It is, kiddo...it is. But it's not entirely cowardice on my part, you know. What if, in a million-to-one chance, she's repulsed? What if she decides you are in danger from my crazy fantasies? Or worse, what if she blows our cover to the point that it attracts the attention of your Mum's relatives?" George shook his head. "I can't risk it, Alf. The entire point of being here is to stay out of the magic limelight."

Alf's face fell. "God, I'm sorry, Dad." He whispered.

"OI!" George rose immediately, and stood in front of Alfred, lifting his chin up to force the boy to look him in the eye. "None of that now! Don't go feeling guilty about things you can't control! I won't have it, Alf, not at all."

The boy blinked. "But if it weren't for me, you could tell her!" He pointed out.

George smiled at him. "If it weren't for you, I wouldn't know her." He countered, lowering his hands to squeeze his shoulders. "If it weren't for you, I'd still be a pathetic mess hiding in the back of my shop whenever possible. If it weren't for you, I'd still not be talking to my mother. So don't you even think about my being better of without you around, because I'm not."

"Right." Alf smiled back, looking a little sheepish now. "I'm being stupid, aren't I?"

"Fortunately you don't make a habit of it." George ruffled his hair and smiled as Alf nudged against him, before ducking away and bounding up the stairs. He ambled in to the living room, and found himself staring out the window towards O'Malley's house. Something like pity filled him then, not only for Mike but for Butch as well. Foolish man not to see what he had in front of him. He's missing so much, and he doesn't even know it.

There was a clamor of music from upstairs; Alf getting ready to get his homework done. George smiled to himself once more. How had he ever lived without this?

WWWWWWW

In the tiny back room of the tavern, Draco and Hermione waited impatiently over the cauldron. Beyond them, in his portrait, Severus Snape stroked the side of his face impatiently. To Draco's side was a cage of small white mice.

Suddenly Snape seemed to lean forward, as if he could escape the confines of the portrait. "That's it...that's the shade of chartreuse we need."

Hermione smiled, and Draco nodded at her. "Right, then..." He took an eye dropper and grasped one of the mice. They weren't just any mice; they were New Zealand Drillers, a highly magical breed known for boring through rock, resealing the passageways behind them. Normally, they were opalescent, with their fur having a nearly kaleidoscopic effect. In this case, they had all had their magic suppressed by means of the same potion that had afflicted Alfred.

"Right, then..." Hermione said, setting her shoulders. "Let's do it."

Draco fed the tiny rodent a droplet of the potion, and then placed it within a box that also contained a rather sizable rock. They all leaned forward and waited, hardly daring to breath...well, not that Snape could, anyway.

Slowly, the mouse's fur began to change...first to a pale blue, then tinged with pink, then shimmering with silver, and finally, after three long minutes, the mouse was fully colored as magic intended it to be. It headed to the rock, and began to bore, as a New Zealand Driller could be expected to do.

Hermione and Draco both let out a whoop a the same time, Hermione clapping her hands before her face, and Draco standing proudly, arms behind his back. Even Snape gave what might pass as at least a smirk, if not a smile.

Then, without warning, the little mouse stopped. It seemed suddenly to have a seizure. With a shudder, it froze solid and keeled over to its side. It was, unmistakably, dead.

Hermione and Draco stilled, and Snape swore softly.

Sadly, Hermione prodded the tiny animal. "What went wrong?" She asked, plaintively.

A solemn and serious Draco shrugged. "That is for us to find out, I guess...we can hardly use this under the circumstances."

"Right." Snape looked challenged. "Let's to an autopsy on the test subject, see what we can figure out. As complicated as this potion is, we can hardly have thought we'd have no set backs."

Hermione nodded, and went back to her notes. But there was no way she was telling George about this. The visual of that mouse, seizing up and dying, was nothing she was going to put in his head if she could help it.

WWWWWWWWW

It was two a.m. when George heard the phone ring. He stumbled out of bed and to the handset, wondering who in the devil would be calling him at this ungodly hour? If it had been a firecall from his family, he'd have immediately expected danger or tragedy, but he had no clue how muggles regarded dead of night communications.

He should have known.

"George?" A strained voice asked on the other end of the line.

"Michelle?" He was puzzled for a second, and then his brain began to clear. "Dear God, are you okay? Where are you?" His voice became frantic as fear replaced sleep.

"I'm at the hospital...don't freak out. I'm fine. It's Mikey." Her voice broke, and George sat, helplessly on the bed.

"What happened? What did that bloated bastard do to him?" He asked.

"Butch didn't...exactly. I'm not sure how it came about, but apparently Mike's mum was in town, and Mike asked if he could live with her. She refused him, and his father heard him ask, so he went ape shit; his two parents apparently got into quite a row." He sensed her forcing herself to pull it together. "They weren't paying attention to him, and I guess somehow he...he... he swallowed a whole bottle of pills...aspirin, I think. Butch didn't realize anything was wrong until about a couple of hours ago." She half laughed. "I heard his screaming, George, and I ran over there...first time that man has actually listened to me in four years. I drove..."

"I wish you'd have woken me up...I'd have gone with you." George tried to sooth her.

"You have Alf...and there wasn't time, anyway. Trust me, O'Malley was in no shape to drive." She sniffed hard. "It's ironic...he went in to check on him...all he keeps saying now was that he thought about what you said to him, about losing him, and he realized he nearly had, if his wife had said yes. So he was going up to talk to him, and then he couldn't wake him up...he's crazed with grief, right now, George. I'm trying to reach a relative to come stay with him, but he's...well, who knew aspirin could be fatal?"

George felt as if the blood were draining from his body. "What...wait...Shell, you're not telling me...you can't be telling me Mike's gone?"

She took a deep breath. "They pronounced him about half an hour ago, George." She forced herself to be calm. "His body tried to throw up the drugs, and he choked on it. They couldn't revive him."

"No...oh, no, no..." George sank down off the bed, slinking on to the floor. "It's terrible, Shell, just sick and terrible."

"I'm sorry." She said quietly. "I didn't want to tell you like this, but you know how rumors go about here. I didn't want you to hear it from someone else, or God forbid, for Alf to."

_How am I going to tell him?_ George nearly moaned to himself. As shitty as O'Malley was, no man deserved this kind of pain. He knew there was nothing that could have been worse than losing Alf.

_There is._ It seemed like Fred was actually answering him, wide awake though he was. _Alf knows you love him. He loves you back. Nothing could ever take that away George, not even death._

True enough. The pain O'Malley was going through then was beyond what he could imagine. And he sure didn't want to.

"George...are you okay?" Michelle broke through his thoughts.

"No." He answered truthfully, pulling himself together. "But I will be. I just need to figure out how I'm going to tell Alf..." He took a deep breath. "Will you be over later?" He was nearly begging.

"As soon as I can." She soothed. "I need to see you guys too. But as much as I've had issues with O'Malley, I feel like I'm needed here. For Mike's memory, if nothing else. See you later, George."

"Love you." He said quietly, and then replaced the cradle. Then, he picked himself up and headed to Alf's room. He could put it off till morning, he supposed, but it wouldn't make it any better or easier. And besides, he just really needed to be by his living, breathing son, if only for his own peace of mind.

WWWWWW

George hesitated, as he turned on a light. Alf flinched slightly, but at first didn't do more than role over, away from the brightness. George pulled the desk chair over as close as he could, and then, gathering all of his courage, he reached over to his son; he stroked his forehead gently, and watched the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Alf turned over again towards the touch, and pulled the blankets up to his chin. With a sigh, George gave him the vaguest of shakes, and Alf's eye's blinked open. With a sleepy smile, he rubbed his eyes. "Whazzit, Dad?" He mumbled.

"Kiddo." George smiled mechanically, now running his hands through Alf's hair. With effort the boy yawned, and pulled up a little on his pillow.

"Uh, oh." Alf read his face, as he left his dreams behind. "Did something happen, Dad?"

"It did." George chewed on his lower lip, and took Alf's hand. "And I don't quite know how to tell you."

Alf kept his eyes on George, finally speaking. "The longer you take, the worse things I am imagining."

George forced a smile. "Right. Alf, it concerns Mike O'Malley."

"Oh." Alf frowned. Then he paled. "Did his father do something to him?" He whispered.

George wished that Alf hadn't had reason to go so quickly to that conclusion. "No, Alf. That fight you heard pretty earlier…I guess things got pretty ugly over there. And you know, Mike's been pretty down, from everything we can figure, for a while…he was very upset about everything. His Mum, apparently, said some things too, and…well, he must have been feeling kind of hopeless." George realized he was rambling, and took a deep breath. "Alf, Mike…he swallowed a whole bottle of aspirin."

"Aspirin? Can that make you sick? I mean, it's just Aspirin…" Alf was watching George's face carefully, and George felt his own eyes fill with tears, wondering how he could get the rest out. "No. No, Dad, this isn't funny, IT ISN'T…" Alfred's voice rose, and his face paled; he started breathing rapidly."

George tried to calm him. "They did what they could, Alf…but it made him sick, and he choked; Michelle went with them to the hospital and she's the one who called." He tried running his fingers through Alf's hair again, only to have his son pull abruptly away.

"Don't." He mumbled, turning away. "Don't…it's my fault…I killed him. I…" Alf's pale face went slightly green, and George took the wastebasket quickly from under the desk, as Alf got sick.

Finally, George helplessly rubbing his back, Alf's retching ceased. "It's that bloody soccer game! It's my fault! I knew what his father was like." Alf murmured, tears spilling over his cheeks. "I remember thinking, in the days before the game, that I would LET Mike score…I knew you would be okay if we lost. You don't love me just because I play soccer. Mike's dad…that was all that mattered to him. WHY didn't I do it!" Alfred rolled away from him and curled up in ball, facing the wall.

"Hey…" George put the wastebasket down, and moved to sit on the bed. "Alf, c'mon, this isn't your fault…it just isn't." Alf didn't respond at all, just kept his eyes on the wall, and jerked his head out from under George's hand so violently that he was afraid to try touching him there again. He could only watch, and wonder what the hell he was supposed to say, as Alf refused to respond.

WWWWWWWWW

Alf woke up the next morning with his head heavy…almost as if his concussion were back. His entire body ached, and he couldn't recall why he had slept up next to the wall as if trying to crawl through it. Then he remembered why, and wished he could just disappear entirely.

He rolled over, and saw his father at his desk. George looked like he hadn't slept a wink all night, but what he had been doing astonished Alf. George was building a house of cards.

Not just any house of cards. A mammoth one, one which seemed to be teetering on disaster so badly that Alf wondered if he was using magic to hold it together. Why on earth…?

"Dad?" He asked, curious despite his own anxieties.

"Morning, Alf." George was watching the tower carefully. "Think you can slide out of bed for a moment and come here?"

Alf hesitated, but then did as George asked. He still felt queasy thinking about what had happened, and he shook a little as he got near his Dad. George wrapped around him and slid him over close. Worn out from his dark thoughts, Alf rested his head on George's shoulder.

"What do you think of my house of cards, Alf?" George asked, as he studied the structure thoughtfully.

"Um, it's a little wobbly." Alf said, honestly.

"So it is. Can you tell why."

Alf looked over the tower. "Well…" He decided to be kind. "There are a few cards that it almost looks like you purposely put at their limit…they're not very secure."

"Right. More than a few, actually, I'd say ten. But it's holding, isn't it? So that makes it secure."

Alfred frowned. "Not really, Dad…one more card, and I think it's over."

"Really?" George handed him one card. "Why don't you give it a go and see what happens?" He asked, innocently.

Alf looked at George…it wasn't like his father to trap him, but that sure seemed what this was. "After you've been working all night on it? Not likely."

"Humor me…" George gave him a gentle nudge. "I promise I won't be angry if it goes, Alf."

With a shrug, Alf studied the tower, and tried to find a place that seemed like it might be secure enough. With tremendous care, he placed the card in that one place…and for a second it held.

Then, with a hushed whoosh, the whole tower came down.

"Hm. It appears you were right." George gave him a squeeze, and with his wand, recreated the tower perfectly, the last card flying in to Alf's hands. "However, it was your fault that it came down, wasn't it?"

Alf opened his mouth and shut it. "You said…you SAID you wouldn't be angry." He looked reproachfully at his father.

"I'm not angry…not in the least. It is, however, still your fault."

"No, it isn't!" Alf blinked rapidly, not liking this game at all. "Look at it, Dad…you put it back just like it was and it's quaking like a leaf…if YOU put a card on now, it would fall too!"

"Let's try, shall we?" George took a different card from the deck and put it carefully in a different place…and again, it tumbled softly to the desk. As it did so, he gingerly eased Alf on to his lap, hugging him tightly.

"I guess you were right…it wasn't because of the last card that it fell…it was because it wasn't sound to begin with."

Alf was sulking slightly, not understanding what was going on; George rested his chin on his head. "Remind you of anything, Alf?"

He shook his head gently, not trusting himself to speak.

"That house of cards, is like Mike O'Malley. Mike had a lot of shakiness in his life. Parents got divorced…his mother was never around, you KNOW what his father was like. Lot of pressure on him…lots of insecure cards in his foundation. Lots we'll probably never know about."

He let Alf think that over for a second, then continued on. "You put a card on the top. You were careful and chose well, and put it in a secure spot. It fell. I put a different card in a different place, just as securely, and the same thing happened." He hugged him tightly. "Do you understand, Alf."

Alfred swallowed hard. "You mean…if it hadn't been me, saving that goal, it would have been something else that pushed him too far." He whispered.

"Yes…and no." George exhaled in relief, though, that Alf was getting it. "I don't think you were that last card…his father had more than enough chances, his mother was there last night. You tried, hard as you could, to help him; I tried to get through to his old man. His foundation was just too shaky, Alf…and it was so long before we met him. I'm sick to death about it, I wish I could have helped him somehow, but it isn't your fault or mine. Nobody knows what was going on in his head. I just hope he's at peace now."

Alf nodded slowly…leaning back against George. "I know you're right Dad. I just wish it could have been different. It should have been." He exhaled slowly.

"I know…" George embraced him, swiveling slightly in the chair. "No kid should have to grow up like that. If I had my way, none would."

Alf reached over to his desk, to the carved box that held Fred's wand, and he stroked the wood gently. "Wizards aren't ever like O'Malley, are they?"

George sighed. "I wish I could say that we're better than that, but there are good parents and bad parents everywhere. Look at Draco Malfoy…I know his old main tortured him in his own way. I just hope I never see anybody as bad as O'Malley ever again, on either side."


	11. Ch 11, February, 2009

February was cold and clear; the snow that had been fluffy and romantic in December was now piled in icy amalgams of dirt, salt, and grime. George was looking forward to spring, for many reasons. Each day they were closer, he believed, to a resolution to Alf's situation, and to his own resolution with Michelle. Every day that passed he loved her more, and while a part of him became equally convinced that she would accept him for what he was, a different part of him became more fearful, as he became more aware of what he had to lose.

He had finished his first book, bound it, and sealed it in an envelope. He had already decided that he would let Michelle read it as soon as they'd talked about their hidden pasts. Meanwhile, part two was coming along nicely, with his rather silly sister in the midst of girl-angst with the diary of Tom Riddle.

But as he stood on a freezing Friday afternoon, chipping ice off the front walk, he realized that there was another very good reason to pray for spring. The icy cold of the neighborhood seemed to hang right over the O'Malley house.

George had gone to the funeral. He had taken Alf with him, because he felt the boy deserved a chance to say goodbye. O'Malley had seemed stoic and numb, as several of Mike's teachers spoke, about his skill as a budding musician, about his artistic talent, about his friendliness and smile. George felt every word stab him, because he knew that for Butch O'Malley, he was realizing Mike's gifts for the first time.

He remembered, pausing to lean against the mailbox, the dream he'd had after the funeral. He had been back at Fred's funeral, by himself, staring at the coffin, and suddenly Fred came up to him, dressed in mourning himself.

"_Here?" George had asked, hating this place, hating the memory of that day._

"_Sorry." Fred said, gently. And then, more gently still. "You can't save everybody, George. You know that."_

"_Of course I do." But he couldn't keep the scorn out of his voice. "That doesn't mean I have to like it." George cleared his throat then, and cast a sidelong glance at his brother. "Fred...do muggles go to the same place...I mean..."_

_Fred put a hand on his shoulder. "What I can tell you, Georgie, is that Mike is at peace now. Now he feels his father's love, in a way he never did in life. He's not suffering any more...it's Butch O'Malley now who has to pay the price." And then, turning George to look at him, he added, "It's a price you'll never have to pay, brother. Your girl is right, you know. You don't love by halves. Never have."_

_George's brow furrowed. "But..."_

"_George...when I died, you mourned and you suffered...you were angry...but you never questioned how we lived our lives. You knew...we both knew...what we meant to each other." Fred turned to walk way, hands stuffed into the pockets of his overcoat. "Remember that especially in the days ahead, George. You'll need to."_

George roused himself, as a passing car splashed more murky slush onto his sidewalk. That dream hadn't left him particularly happy...the allusion to difficulties ahead scared him more than he'd care to admit. Well and good to say that if anything happened to Alf he'd have nothing to reproach himself with...he still didn't want anything hurting so much as a hair on that boy's head!

"Hey, you!" Michelle approached with a steaming cup of cappuccino. "You look cold."

"Thanks." He took the cup gratefully. Just her presence with him soothed him. "Dinner tonight?" He asked, hopefully.

"Love to. I have to head over to Boston tomorrow for a conference, but tonight I am all yours." She came forward and nuzzled his nose gently. "You're getting frost bite."

George smirked. "Is that an offer to warm me up?" He suggested.

"Ahem." Alf had come up out of nowhere, and George and Michelle separated, but just slightly; George kept his arm wrapped around her. "Can I go with Tony to the movies tonight?"

"Absolutely..." George reached in for his wallet, and handed him twenty dollars. "Do you want to stay over too?"

Alf blinked at him, and George was surprised to see a faintly calculating glance from Alf. "I could, I'm sure...if you want me to."

"Um...it's if _you_ want to, Alf." He replied. "Either way is fine with me."

Alf nodded slowly. "Right. I'll sleep over Tony's, then...it's pretty much a standing offer." And before George could say anything else, Alf had scampered over the front lawn to the house, no doubt to get his bag and to call Tony with the news.

"Is it me, or was that a little strange?" George asked, feeling somewhat unsettled.

"It was strange." Michelle agreed, looking puzzled herself. "I always thought Alf liked me...you sure he isn't seeing me as moving in on his mother's territory?"

"I guarantee you it isn't that." George said, immediately. "I'll have to speak to him later...maybe it has something to do with Mike's death. That would be enough to leave anyone unsettled."

"Mmmm." Michelle didn't sound like she agreed, but time enough to figure it out. Alf would come to him if he was worried; their relationship was far beyond where it was back during the fireworks incident. Best to leave it alone for now.

WWWWWWWWWW

Saturday morning hadn't started bad. Michelle had left for her day in Boston, but she would be back Sunday and they were all planning to head to the science museum. Breakfast had, in fact, been down-right cute; he felt a completeness when he was with her that had been missing from his life for a long time.

Things had started to go south not long after she left. Alf came home from Tony's and seemed quiet, almost moody; he finally announced he was going to shoot some hoops at the school yard and made it quite clear company wasn't welcome. Which turned out to be a good thing, because Alf wasn't ten mintues gone when Hermione appeared through the floo.

"You've been down as 'unavailable' for ages." She grumbled. I've been trying to get over here since last night." She dusted herself off.

"Sorry...I...er...had company." George blushed. "Um, is it wise for you to be physically here and not just firechatting?"

She gave him a wan grin. "As of yesterday, yes...we have fully identified everyone involved in the attempted attack on Alf and people are being detained."

"_That's_ good news." George pulled over a plate of pastries for her, and poured her coffee. "That was what you were coming to tell me, then?"

"Partly." She ran her hands over her face. "Pardon me if I came across just now as rather snotty; it's been a rough week for us. But yes, we should be able to visit you more regularly now; your location no longer needs to be top secret." She absentmindedly took a bite of the danish, and her eyes went wide. 'My god, you CAN cook."

"Why this comes as SUCH a surprise to people is beyond me!" George sat across from her. "You do look tired, Mi."

"Well...that's because it's not all good news, my being here." She sighed. "We're still having problems with that damned potion, Draco and I, and I thought you deserved a live update, as it were, since I can now do that."

"Ah." George sighed deeply. "Look, I know how hard you guys have been working...last I heard it sounded like you were pretty close."

"We SHOULD be done." She shook her head. "The potion appears to be the right color, the right consistency, and the right smell, even. Every ingredient was countered properly and balanced well. But...well, we're at the testing stage...using lab rats-New Zealand Borers, you know..."

"Rats. Right." George blinked uncomprehendingly. "How would that tell you if it was working or not?"

"We'd fed a group of them some of the dark potion to begin with, turning magical mice into non-magic creatures. That was months ago. Now, we're giving them the antidote." She hesitated, fiddling with her coffee cup.

"And it isn't working?" George guessed, sympathetically.

She grimaced. "Oh, it's working just fine...within seconds the mouse would show definite signs of a returned magic status...perfectly normal magic status, even."

"So what's the problem?" George asked, starting to get excited.

She looked at him carefully. "They're all dead."

George spilled the coffee across the table. "SHIT!...I beg your pardon...the potion is KILLING THEM?" George frantically dabbed at the pool of liquid with shaking hands.

Hermione grabbed his hand to still him. "The first rat was fine for five minutes and then keeled over like it had been hit with Avada Kedavra. The second made it half an hour. We've gotten them up to twenty four hours, but the last one died yesterday."

George pulled away from her and threw the mug across the kitchen, where it hit the wall, shattering. "Fuck that, Hermione...twenty four hours? _Are you kidding me?_"

"I wish I was, George. Of course, these are mice, and not people, but..."

"Wait...hang on...I know, I just know that you're not suggesting we dose Alf with this stuff in the hopes that _maybe _it has a different reaction with human beings! My God, Hermione, this is my SON we're talking about." He screamed at her from the center of the room.

"I _know_, George!" She firmly answered, rising and coming to him. She grasped both of his arms firmly. "Do you think there is a single chance I would let Alfred take a toxic potion? Or Draco, for that matter?"

George snorted. "Draco might...wouldn't have put it past him..."

Hermione dug her fingers into his arms, making him wince. "Don't, George. That isn't becoming of you at all. Draco has worked night and day on this thing; he's gotten it into his head that discovering this antidote is the only way he can restore any kind of dignity to the Malfoy name. He actually cried yesterday when we found the last rat dead. We'd thought that was the one, you see..."

George pulled away from Hermione roughly, turning to lean on the counter. Through the window over the sink he could see to the playground, where his son was listlessly tossing a basketball. "I know, Mi. I know you've both been working so hard on this. But I can't...can't risk it. I'm doing okay here...I can pass as a muggle. Hell, my _girlfriend_ is a muggle. I have no problem with Alfred being a muggle. Alfred dead is not acceptable to me."

"I know." She said more gently, coming up beside him and giving him a gentle squeeze. "I know what you'd give up for him. Btu George, we will get it right. Because Alf ought to be what he is by birthright. We're dosing more mice now, and we're talking to Hagrid to see what advice he has...although he'll probably blubber like a baby if we kill any more." She rubbed his back. "Another month, George. Two at most. By the end of May, we'll have an answer."

"Time is immaterial, Hermione." George sighed, and bravely gave her a wan smile. "However long it takes to be foolproof, fine; but I'm not risking his life."

She reached up and kissed him on his cheek. "You're a good man, George Weasley. And a good father. Fred would be proud of you."

"Thanks." He returned the hug briefly. "How's Ron doing? Business appears to be booming."

"He's working his ass of for you...which is another incentive for me to get this potion fixed, I'd like my husband back, thankyouverymuch!" She teased. "Which means I have to return now...Ginny's watching the kids at the moment."

"Give everyone my love, Mi. And tell Draco thanks, from both of us." He walked her back to the living room, and watched her depart, then threw himself down on the sofa, permitting himself to wallow in the possibilities, and to take a long, hard look at what his future might be. Perhaps it was somewhat selfish, or perhaps not, but he would give anything for Alf to know what it was to be a wizard; to be able to fly on a broom and play Quidditch, to feel the surge of power that a well placed spell left you with. It just didn't seem fair that he'd never be able to fully enjoy the legacy he'd been given.

WWWWWWW

Alf came home mid day, and they strangely danced around each other. George knew he was preoccupied, which he understood—pictures of Alf, dead from that cure, and with eyes glassy and empty like Fred, kept coming forward in his mind—but so was Alf, which was rather more unexpected. It wasn't until an uncharacteristically quiet dinner that his son finally spoke about something more than inane sports scores and television shows.

"Dad...you and Ms. Fabry seem to be getting pretty close." Alf's eyes met him, and for once they were unreadable.

"I like her a good deal, Alf." George was surprised at the question. "I thought you liked her too?"

"I do. She's great. It's just...I've been..." Alf chewed on his lip in that way he had when he was worried. "I dunno...nevermind."

_Oh no you don't._ George thought. "Spill it, Alfred. Since when can't you talk to me about something?" George sat back and looked at him intently.

Alf met his stare, and set his shoulders. "Alright then." He took a deep breath. "What happens if you get married? I mean, what happens to me? What happens when you have your own kids?" He forced out his words in a rush, but kept his resolve and his reserve up.

George felt like he'd been sucker punched.

"Excuse me?" He asked, with a deceptively calm voice.

Alf blinked, but kept going. "I mean, you're bound to have a real son, and then everything will be different, won't it..."

"How DARE you!" George snapped. He stood abruptly, leaning both hands on the table, and towered over Alf. "You ARE my son, Alfred. You have been for some time. But I can't believe you would do me the disservice of asking me that question. I have seen you nearly killed by trampling threstals in Diagon Alley and held you through a dosage of skele-grow; I kept loving you after you destroyed thousands of pounds worth of fireworks; I have been living a muggle life for the past six months for you; I wept over your lifeless body when you nearly broke your neck off in that soccer match; I worry about you so damned much that I feel like I'm developing permanent frown lines and an ulcer!" George thought about Hermione's visit, and his blood began to boil, so much so that he barely registered that Alf had gone pale and pressed himself back into his chair, leaning away from him. "If you could explain, to me, PLEASE, what exactly it would take for you to bloody well trust me, I'd appreciate it. Do you need for me to bleed for you? Because I'd do it. Do you need me to _die_ for you? Because I would, without hesitation. But every time you question whether or not I actually love you, it HURTS ME, Alfred...hurts me more than you could ever possibly know. And I can't KEEP ON DOING THIS!"

With effort, he shoved his chair away from the table, and strode out of the kitchen, retiring to his bedroom; his head was pounding viciously, and he just couldn't even look at Alf at the moment; it was ripping his heart out.

WWWWWWWWW

"Well done, George." Fred, a deep scowl on his face, arms crossed in front of him, leaning back on a fence in the fields at The Burrow. "Really terrific way to ease my son's worries."

"Oh, shut up, Fred." George was pacing in front of him. "You have no bloody idea what I'm going through."

"Bollocks." Fred growled. "I know everything you're going through, only I can't bloody well help. How, exactly, do you think that makes ME feel, George? So you can quit your little pity party right there."

George turned and looked at him, hands on the side of his head trying to contain the headache. "I don't know what else he wants from me, Fred. Seriously, what else can I DO? I live and breathe by his presence in my life, and I haven't been exactly shy about showing him that. I tell him that I love him every night; every morning he wakes up and I'm still there for him. WHAT ELSE CAN I DO?"

Fred's glare lessened, but just slightly. "Well, for starters you could remember that he's ten years old, and you're thirty. Honestly, George, I know you love him; of course I do. But he's still a kid. And if you've told him a hundred times that you won't be abandoning him, then make it one hundred and one if you need to. You expect him to get over his mother's death, at his feeling abandoned, that quickly? How good were **you** doing nine months after **I** died, George?"

George balked at that for a second, and then reeled. It was, perhaps, just a little too easy for him to forget that Alf would be mourning his mother. Alf entering his life had been a beginning for George; Katie's death had not, in that context, really been a bad thing, though he certainly wouldn't have wished it. But for Alf, his mother was dead. That was something pretty serious indeed.

"And here I am thinking about asking Shell to marry me..." George murmured. "Replacing his mother."

"There you go." Fred said, seeming to relax as he realized George _got _it. "Not that I'm saying you shouldn't ask her to marry you...bloody well time, actually. Just don't dismiss his worries, George. They're very real to him."

"Hell." George threw his head up to the sky. "What now?"

"Go talk to him." Fred came over and put his hand on his shoulder. "He is resilient, I'll give him that. Tell him why you're worried, too; he'll understand that. Just don't leave him wondering. His imagination is far too active for his own good."

"Right." George went to fade away from his dream, when abruptly Fred hugged him tight.

"Thank you..." He heard Fred whisper as he felt himself waking up. "For everything."

George sat up in bed, headache gone but sweating profusely. It was pitch black in the room; he hadn't bothered to dress for bed, but had just thrown himself down on it, in a moody fit. He rubbed his through the sleeves of his shirt, and pulled himself together.

_Go talk to him._

He walked through the quiet hallway to Alf's room, and through the door. The room was dark and quiet, and George came up to his bed.

"Alf?" He whispered.

No response.

"C'mon, kiddo...we need to talk. I need to explain to you why I was such a moody git." He waited, but still there was silence. "I promise not to yell again..." Still Alfred said nothing. "C'mon Alf, don't make me feel worse than I do..." He reached over to stroke his son's head.

And hit air.

After a brief jolt, George felt around the pillow, then the bed, his heart rate increasing. Abruptly he pulled the light on, panic rising in his breast. Alf's bed was pristine; neatly made and not slept in. He looked around the room wildly; Alf's knapsack was gone as well.

_Dear God, he ran away!_

"ALFRED!" George bellowed, absolutely terrified. He turned and ran thundering down the stairs. "ALFRED!"

"What?" Alf said innocently. as George went through the kitchen. He tried to stop himself and skidded, grasping at the kitchen chair trying to stop, the net result being that he and the chair tumbled over. Alf stood up, concerned, as George gasped for breath.

"You're _here._" George blinked up at him, relief replacing adrenaline. To be followed by anger. "What in the _bloody hell_ are you **doing?"**

Alf flushed slightly, frowning, crossing his arms defensively. "My _history_ homework; I have a paper due on Monday."

George pulled himself up, rubbing his elbow. "_At this time of night?" _He scathed.

Alf said nothing; he stood by the table, his knapsack out and books splayed across it. Then he raised one eyebrow, and then pointedly turned to look at the clock.

It was only 10:30pm.

George stood there gaping, and then closed his eyes. He could hear Fred now: _That went well, you great idiot_.

Breathing deeply, George opened his eyes and saw that behind the defensive pose, Alf was both hurt and scared at his irrational behavior. He exhaled with a whoosh, and then came forward slowly. Alf, to his credit, didn't back away, and George put his arms out to hug him. "Sorry kiddo." He said, gently. Alf gave in and hugged him back, his shoulders shaking slightly. "I thought it was later than that, and I thought you'd taken off because of my rather volatile behavior earlier. Anyway...sorry..." He bent down to kiss the boy on the top of the head.

"I wouldn't leave." Alf mumbled into his shirt, voice quavering. "And I didn't mean to hurt you, Dad...I don't want to hurt you!"

George pulled Alf over to the chair with him, sitting down and holding him close. "I know you didn't mean to, Alf." He rested his chin on the boy's head. "But I'm not going to lie to you and tell you that you didn't. Look at it this way, if what you asked _hadn't_ hurt me, you would have reason to be worried." He rubbed gentle circles on the boy's back, wondering how to move forward. "But that doesn't excuse my reaction to what you asked earlier. I don't want you to ever feel like you can't ask me something, like you can't talk to me."

"I know." Alf sniffed once, rubbing his cheek against George's chest. "And I want to explain...I know you love me, I do...but...I thought my stepfather loved me once too. And then Len was born." Alf gave George's arm a slight squeeze.

"Come again?" George asked, surprised. Alf had not mentioned Billy Woodruff since the middle of last summer, and his only experience of the man had been tending to Alf's bruises the first night they'd been together. He had assumed that the man had been, if not an abusive asshole, at least indifferent towards the boy in his care.

Not so. Alf, in a low voice, explained his childhood memories, of someone who _used to_ be a father to him, who treated him with love and kindness. A man who would never have turned him out at Katie's death, who appeared to be raising Alf as his own child. They were distant memories...Alf had only been around three...but clearly had been vivid in Alf's mind. And then, when a _real son_ had come along, the love and care he had come to expect had evaporated as if it had never been.

_Adults don't have a real good track record in his life._ Fred's voice echoed in his mind. _Fred, _he thought back, _You don't know the half of it._

When Alf had finished, George paused to choose his words carefully. "Thank you for explaining that to me, Alf. I understand your question much better now, but I'm not sure I really know how to answer it. I know how much I love you, and I know I won't change at all should I ever have other children, with Michelle or otherwise. But I also know that no matter how much I tell you that, it's going to be hard for you to believe, because of what's happened to you before. I am **not** Billy Woodruff, Alf; and we do have a biological bond, even if it isn't father-son. So the most we can do is go forward, trusting each other to the best of our ability, and let that carry us through."

"Okay." Alf said. And he sighed. "I do know, you realize, that the only times I've seen you go bonkers is when you've been worried about me." He looked up at George with a frown. "So why today? You were pretty out there before dinner...is something wrong?"

"In a manner of speaking." And with calmness at first, soon fading to a nervous fear and a death grip on his son, George explained Hermione's visit. Both the good...the apprehension of his attackers...and the bad...the death of the lab mice. The fear of losing Alfred came back full force, and his grip on the boy tightened exponentially.

Alf didn't say anything at first, he just let George hug him. Then he looked up and managed a smile. "I understand. We'll be okay...I do know that, Dad. If Aunt Hermione and Mr. Malfoy get that potion fixed, fine, but if not, we'll be okay."

George half laughed. "How can you get so worried about hypothetical children I may never have, and not be bothered at all about this?"

Alf laughed back. "I know it's stupid. But...we've been doing the muggle thing since August, now. You can cook. You can write. You even coach soccer. We've had fun, mostly. I know that my not having magic doesn't bother you, because I've lived it...does that make sense."

"Whereas your life experience has taught you that siblings are dangerous. Got it." George relaxed his grip slightly. "And in a bizarre, strange way, it does make sense."

"I'm not going to die." He said, suddenly. "Not like Mike, Dad. I know that's worrying you too...I see you looking at Mike's dad and putting yourself in his place. I won't leave you. I didn't run away before and I'm not going to swallow pills or anything...promise."

George sighed. Fred once would have promised him that they'd live long lives together, and die on the same day. That was a promise that couldn't be kept, no matter how much Alf believed it. But neither was that something a kid his age was supposed to be thinking about at all. Still, he understood what Alf was trying to say: he was never going to willingly leave.

It occurred to George suddenly that Alf wasn't the only one with abandonment issues, and he managed a smile. "I am supposed to be the one picking you up, Alf. Not the other way around."

Alf leaned back against him. "I think we do a good job of picking each other up, actually, Dad. We do it all the time. Works out pretty well, I think."

"Excellently." George agreed. He looked up at the clock. "We ought both to be getting to bed, I guess...enough of this emotional soul searching." He felt his stomach rumble. "Unless...how do banana pancakes sound to you, kiddo?"

Alf perked up immediately. "I'll do the dishes!"

They laughed at each other, and George went about slicing bananas while Alf finished up the last of his homework.. Alf was right about one thing most definitely...even if he never got his magic back, they'd be okay.

WWWWWWW

"He _has_ to get his magic back, Fred."

Once again, Fred was in the waiting room at King's Cross, making sure his brother had events with Alfred well in hand. He'd seen Cedric Diggory here many times since that first time, when he'd alluded to his unfortunate younger brother's plight, and when he'd indicated that George might be of importance in CJ's life. Every time they ran into each other, Cedric would inquire about Alf quite politely. Tonight was the first time he'd seen Cedric driven frantic...the man was pacing violently, and waving his arms about in frustration.

Fred studied him carefully. "Nobody wants my son to receive his full due as a wizard more than I do, Cedric. But I hope you're not expecting his life to be risked in the endeavor?"

Cedric stopped short. "Of course not, Fred...George is quite right. But Hermione and Draco have GOT to figure this out. My brother's life...and your family's future...hang in the balance!"

"Hang on..." Fred rose quickly. "What do you mean my family's future? What's going on here, Cedric?" Anxiety and anger were feelings Fred had begun to forget, and it was most unpleasant to have them rear their ugly head in his life.

Cedric came up short, realizing what he'd said. "I can't tell you, Fred...I just can't...but it's complicated. CJ is going to need Alf, and your brother...and they are going to need to know him...and how that happens without them both at Hogwarts I can't figure." Cedric pulled himself together and set his shoulders, as beyond, on that modified television that showed Fred the lives of those he'd left behind, Hermione and Draco beat themselves over the head as their test mice died. "I'll take care of it, Fred. It might not be a popular decision...but I have to do this. Just this once..."

And Cedric vanished into the mist.

Fred looked with confusion back at his screen. Slowly, he switched channels, and saw his brother and Alfred, along with George's young lady, at some sort of birthday party for one of Alf's friends...the one he played soccer with. They were having a grand time, without magic, and a part of Fred was fine for that to continue. Better that than risking Alf's life.

But apparently there was more at risk than that. And more at stake than his son. What it all meant, he couldn't possibly imagine. But he sat back down, deciding to forgo a return to the world beyond, to keep his eye on his child, and to see if he could figure out what Cedric had planned.


	12. Ch 12, March 2009

Far away from Salem, USA...and not even so very near to The Burrow...was a house deep in the English Moors. Two stories plus an attic, it appeared decrepit and run down, as if sagging and sinking into the deep earth. No muggle would have been interested in it, had any muggle been able to see it. But no muggle could have, for this was the house of Amos Diggory, and it was well protected from muggle and wizard alike.

The house had been purchased in an attempt for Amos Diggory to wrest his grieving wife away from the return of Voldemort, and all that it had meant to them. The house was the place where his wife died, after giving birth to the son that Diggory had intended as a replacement for the boy he'd lost. Now, it was the place where that boy grew up, in a manner of speaking, if anything could be said to grow in solitude and despair.

CJ looked like his brother in many ways; although only ten years old he showed the promise of Cedric's easy good looks and athletic build. But his eyes were haunted and calculating; within their depths they were like closed shutters on windows, that allowed entry to none. His smile was non-existent; CJ had, in his short life, had very little to smile about. Because Amos Diggory had long ago gone mad.

In fact, the young boy by rights ought to have been mad himself. There wasn't much other recourse from a crazed father who kept you essentially locked away from the world, who was often both physically and magically violent to you in the hopes of bending you to his twisted way of thinking. But CJ had received two resources most unexpected: One, a trio of house elves, once in service to his mother. Dixie, Dexter and Delwyn had been bonded her, and on her death, though magically freed, had thrown themselves into service of the young master, as had been their mistresses wish. The trio played with him, read to him, healed his bruises, dried his tears, and cared for him in illness. They were, indeed, his family.

The one other presence in his life he had first seen at the age of two. That had been the first time his father had used cruciatus on him, although for nowhere near as severely as he'd grown into doing. Alone and whimpering in his room, with even the elves unable to sooth him, a strange white presence had come to him. It had held him, and he'd welcomed that, though it was cold; it had sung to him, and told him that it loved him, and CJ had never heard that before.

Now, eight years later, CJ had gotten used to the presence of his ghostly brother, the one he'd been named after (Cedric John), the one he was expected to replace. He might have hated the memory of Cedric, if Cedric hadn't been more than a memory to him. And though he'd learned to hide from his father the feelings and hopes that his brother fostered inside of him, for Cedric he would open himself up. For Cedric, he would do anything.

"Do you understand what I'm asking you for, CJ?" Cedric implored him, crouched before him while they played wizard chess together.

"I think so." CJ was very serious, smoothing his robes out before him. "But will father bring me with him to Hogsmead when he goes?"

"I will make sure of it." Cedric sighed. "He won't see me...his twisted mind won't let him do that...but I know full well he hears me. If I play along with what he wants me to say instead of trying to talk him out of his madness, he will listen."

"Right." CJ made his play carefully, then turned his head slightly, pretending to study the board. "Why does father hate George Weasley so much, Cedric?"

Cedric mirrored his brothers seeming nonchalance. "Well, George Weasley's store was started with the money Harry Potter won in the Tri Wizard Tournament. The one where I died."

CJ thought that over. "Did he steal the money from Harry Potter?" CJ whispered the name very softly. His father had made it quite clear that speaking the name of the one everyone else considered the savior of the wizarding world would get him severely punished.

"No...Harry Potter was quite friendly with the entire Weasley family and he didn't care for the money himself. Harry Potter was very good to me, CJ, even in death, though father will not recognize it. He saw what happened, and he nearly died himself. And Harry Potter thought that if George Weasley and his twin brother had the money, they could open their store and make the world a happier place again." Cedric looked softly at CJ. "I wish I could take you to that store, CJ. It would even make you laugh." He half teased.

CJ managed a wan smile, pretty much the best he could do. "It sounds nice." He admitted. "But father will never let me see it." A faint spark came into his eyes. "Unless I can go to Hogwarts. Maybe then."

Cedric took CJ's hand in an icy grasp. "You will go to Hogwarts, little brother...I promise you that. You will!"

WWWWWWWW

Early March brought an unseasonable warm spell to sleepy Salem. George Weasley watched as young Alfred played in the back yard with Tony Castelli, tossing a baseball back and forth. Tony had hoped Alf would go out for the little league team, a thought that set Alf into fits of laughter; Alf knew what his sport was, and baseball it wasn't. Still, they were happily insulting each other in the way boys did, and getting progressively muddier.

"When's his birthday, George?" Jimmy had come by to drop Tony off, and the two men were enjoying coffee and scones in the kitchen.

"End of the month." George grinned. "March 31st, exactly one day before mine."

"Why should I not be surprised you're an April fool?" Jimmy grinned at him.

"Like you're the first person who said that to me in my life." George snorted.

They laughed for a second, as a ball sailed way over Alf's head , and Rufus took off to chase it. "Where's Shell, anyway? Why are you babysitting the beast?"

"She's at an advisory seminar for the school district. Child suicide." George's face fell. "She got really active after what happened with Michael, and she's speaking to a group of teachers about warning signs and suggested steps."

"Damn it." Jimmy grumbled. "You know she's going to find some way to blame herself for this, George. Like she could have somehow stopped it."

George felt his own twinge at that statement; he suspected he and Michelle both believed ought to have been able to do something. Not a new feeling for either of them, he guessed. He sipped from his coffee slowly before responding. "O'Malley's selling the house, you know. Not that I'm surprised."

"Yeah, word is that he has some young relative who wants to buy it...a cousin who has a wife and a kid." Jimmy glanced along sideways at George. "So...what about you?"

"What about me, what?" He blinked at his friend.

Jimmy grinned. "When you finally get up the nerve to ask Michelle to marry you, are you going to stick around here, George, or are you thinking about going back to England?"

George turned about three shades of red, and he nervously tugged at his collar. Given his circumstances, the answer to that question was damned complicated. "Well, I definitely want to ask her to marry me." He admitted, perhaps for the first time even to himself. "There are some things we have to work out with each other before it gets to that point. We're both being rather careful, Jimmy."

"I can see." Jimmy leaned against the counter and turned to him. "I know back on Halloween I was urging you to do just that. But I've watched the two of you together since then. You make her happy, George...and I can see that you're just as crazy about her. Whatever it is between the two of you...just forget it. Go forward, George." Jimmy shook his head. "Six years ago when Tony called to tell me they'd broken up, I told him he was being an idiotic fool. But you're no fool, George, and I know..."

"Hang on." George cut him off, putting his cup down. "Shell told me nobody knew she and Tony broke it off right before he died."

It was Jimmy's turn to blush. "She doesn't know I know. Tony called me drunk off his ass and rambling that night. I always thought I'd talk sense in to him when he was sober the next day...then I never got the chance."

George digested this new information slowly. "Jimmy, do you know...do you know what was behind the breakup?"

Jimmy shrugged. "I do...sort of. Like I said, Tony was rambling and not everything he said made sense. But some of it did, and I thought about it all night and I think I sorted out the rest. Look, I'm not the brainiest guy in the world, George, but I've always been fond of Michelle, always wished things had worked out different for her. Now I think they have." He crossed his arms in front of him. "I know you're not going to ask me to tell you what she doesn't even know that I know?"

"No!" George said, and they both laughed at the word-play. "Look, I wouldn't do that...it's her story to tell, and she deserves the right to tell it in her own words." He sighed. "It does put me at ease that whatever deep dark secret she has doesn't seem to phase you."

"I didn't say that." Jimmy quipped. "Kidding, George." He laughed at his face. "Michelle is Michelle. Nothing changes that." He coughed lightly. "You never answered me on England?" He added.

"Ah." George turned and looked at Alf. "That one's rather complicated, Jimmy. To be as honest with you as I can, I'd love to be able to move back to my home in England, but I might not be able to. If I can't, then this is where I'd prefer to stay."

"Right." Jimmy nodded. "I've wondered, George; well, about a lot of things. But I've never felt like you'd be here forever...somehow, you just never seemed permanent. Just, you know, keep in touch if you can...Tony and Alf make good friends."

_I hope I can do that. I hope if Alf gets his magic back that I have the courage to tell you where we're going and why, and to let Alf keep the friends he has on both sides of the world. But lord knows, I just can't be sure of anything right now._

"I'll do my best, Jimmy." He shrugged. "Whatever the future brings."

WWWWWWWW

Alf leapt up to catch a particularly high lob from Tony; it sailed over his head, and he and t he ball splashed into the muddy groung. "Ugh!" Alf laughed, picking himself up. "No wonder they don't usually play this game until April…"

Tony merely smirked at him. "If that were a soccer ball, you'd have saved it!" He pointed out, as he fielded Alf's return lob neatly.

"Right…in soccer I'm not handicapped by a useless appendage…" He waved his left hand with the loose leather glove on it wildly. "What _good_ does this do?" He grumbled.

"Trust me…you don't want to catch a line drive without it!" Tony said, with another laugh as he threw.

Rufus came in and with a graceful leap snagged the ball, then took off for the low stone fence at the back of the property.

"OI" Alf yelled, tossing his glove off.

"Yo, BEAST!" Tony yelled back.

The two boys sprinted after the animal, finally corralling him by the fence that the dog would not jump over (far too well trained) , and managing to get the orb from his slobbering jaws. In his excitement, Rufus then proceeded to try to wash both Alf and Tony, ignoring their waiving arms and protests.

"Ahhhhhh!" Tony pushed the dog down, and Rufus returned to Alf. "Good luck to you, Weatherby, living with this thing when your Dad and Aunt Shell get married…"

"Huh?" Alf came up abruptly, having somehow subdued the dog.

Tony brushed what mud he could off of himself, and his eyes sparkled. "You do KNOW they're dating, right?"

"Well, of course!" Alf blushed a little. "I just didn't realize that everyone else knew how close they've gotten."

"Hello, she's one of my Dad's oldest friends, I call her Aunt…" Tony sat down on the fence, and Alf hopped up next to him. "Everyone's really happy about it, you know." Tony said, fairly matter-of-factly. And then. "I hope _you_ are."

"I am…but…" Alf paused, wondering what he could say, versus what he should say. "Just, our lives are kind of complicated. I hope everything works out okay, and they still love each other no matter what."

"Hm…" Tony watched him from narrowed eyes, and then his voice lowered. "You two are in the witness protection program, aren't you?"

"What?" Alf gasped.

"Oh, I know you can't tell me if you are." Tony said with the air of superiority not uncommon to boys who have a year of age advantage on a friend. "But I know all about it…there was this movie on Lifetime that my Mom watched…mostly garbage, but that part was interesting."

"Uh, Tony, it's a different kind of interesting, I think…" Alf protested/

"Riiiight." Tony drawled out with a wink. "I bet your name isn't even Weatherby, is it? I hope it is Alfred, though. I can't picture you with any other name. You don't much look like an Arthur or Albert." The older boy hopped up and threw the ball in a long arc towards the house; Rufus charged after it. "Anyway…your secret is safe with me!" Tony took off after Rufus, and Alf smacked himself in the head.

"Why does my life have to be so DAMNED complicated?" He asked to nobody in particular, as he followed Tony back to the house.

WWWWW

Amos Diggory sat in his study. On the wall all around him were photos and plans, which at first glance seemed to be nonsense, but at second look were revealed to be various shots, takes, and blueprints of the flagship store of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Amos was, as he often did, mumbling to himself.

He didn't see or sense Cedric when the ghost of his oldest son vaporized into the room. He ought to have been able to, but at some point his mind had twisted to where he was not open to any good or happy memory, paranormal or otherwise. Had Voldemort appeared, Diggory probably could have seen him…but fortunately for all beyond the veil and in the world of the living, that was never going to be allowed to happen.

"Dad…." Cedric spoke to him, leaning over the desk.

Amos shuddered, pulling a sweater around him, but didn't react at first to the unseen whisper, that came to him as if through a sponge.

"Dad…do you want your revenge on the Weasleys?"

Amos spoke…to himself, or otherwise, nobody could guess. "George Weasley…flaunting his blood money…not decent, it isn't. My Cedric's dead."

"Weasley has a son now…CJ's age. If CJ got to know him, that would get you close to George." Cedric urged, although he felt a twinge of fear. This was a _dangerous_ course he was plotting. "But you've got to get him out in the world. He can't be your instrument of revenge from inside the attic with no education."

"Outside world…yes…CJ…instrument of revenge…but the boy isn't ready…might be swayed."

"No, no…" Cedric soothed. "You have him trained, Dad…you taught him, didn't you…you taught him hard that the world is his enemy." He had to fight to keep the disgust out of his voice. "CJ is your tool, Sir…it's time for you to use him to revenge my death." Cedric paused, and plunged on. "Bring him to Hogsmead with you next month. Introduce him to the world. Reintroduce yourself. You need to be…" Cedric fought for the words. "A double agent. Make people think you're reconnecting. Let CJ handle the rest, with guidance." He plunged further. "I have a test for you."

"A test?" Amos perked up. "My Cedric was a good student, excellent in fact…the _real_ Champion of Hogwarts."

"Right…test CJ, Dad. Bring him to the Hog's Head…Arthur Weasley will be there…ask him for a job. But let CJ wander. He will provide a tool that will bring George Weasley back to England…after all, it's not such sweet revenge on George Weasley if he isn't here to see it?"

"Need him here…" Amos wrangled his hands together. "But what tool can CJ provide?"

"You can trust me, father." Cedric said, quite seriously. "You know I will do what is best for the family."

"Revenge, yes, destroy the Weasleys. Double agent." Amos's eyes gleamed. "Yes, surely I will take CJ to Hogsmead!"

Cedric sighed, hoping he wasn't doing more damage than good. But he believed in the goodness of people at heart. Surely things would happen as he saw they would. George Weasley would make it so.

Step one was completed.

WWWWWWW

Butch O'Malley, a shell of a man, hugged his cousin in greeting. The cousin was ten years younger than he was; his mother's brother, who many said he resembled, was the boy's father. He had been born and grown up in England, and only moved to this country some ten years ago. They were the only family O'Malley had left…well, except for Aunt Marge, but he'd never much cared for her.

Hadn't much cared for his Uncle, either, to be honest, although he wasn't as bad as Marge. Often wondered how his Mum had ever grown up with them. But his cousin, who he hadn't really met until they'd moved here, was a nice kid. Big guy, beefy, owned a gym and taught Karate. Yes, a nice kid, and now he had a nice wife and a son…a son he clearly loved dearly and adored. Butch's heart clenched in his chest. He missed Mike so much it seemed the pain might kill him.

"Glad you want the house." Butch murmured. "Like to think of a family here, of a boy playing in the yard. How's the young imp, eh?"

"Harry? Oh, he's fine…just five years old. Much better kid than I was, actually!" The younger man laughed. "Smarter to, though that's not hard. I don't let Mum and Dad spoil him…although I did a pretty good job of distancing them when I chose his name."

"Why?" Butch looked dazed. "Harry's a fine name…a bit old fashioned, but you Brits…" He thought about the Weatherbys and Alfred, and he sighed.

His young cousin patted his shoulder. "Let's just say Mum and Dad have reason to feel guilt when they think of the name Harry…not that they'd recognize it as such." He looked around. "It's a fine house, Butch…I'm lucky to get it at a fair price."

"Dudley…" Butch sighed. "There isn't anybody else who I'd want here."


	13. Ch 13, April, 2009

April 2, 2009

George enthusiastically waved over a hot-dog vendor. Fenway Park, he discovered, was cramped, old, and not built with typical modern amenities. Naturally, he loved it; loved the excitement in the crowd, the heady murmurs, the smell of food and beer, and the heckling of the enemy. It was just like a Quidditch match, and he wondered, again, at those who would have made Wizards believe that muggles were some different, inferior breed. Right now, he felt nothing but kinship with those around him.

They were just reading the starting lineups. Michelle was beside him, enthusiastically writing names into a booklet, what she referred to as 'keeping score'. George was himself busy looking about. They had, through some great accomplishment, secured seats on top of the "Green Monster", the large fence in left field. Many of those around him were clearly die hard, life long fans of the team, and were showing their colors…while blowing on their hands and bundling up as much as possible. Game time temperature was just above freezing; he wondered why on earth one would schedule a night game in early April in this region!

He'd initially had a lot of debate about whether he should take Michelle tonight, or Alf, but Alf himself had settled that, insisting that he invite Michelle. Alf had, with a broad wink, suggested that it might be a good time to "make a few suggestions" to her about his past, especially if the team won the game. First, it was a public area and she wasn't likely to pitch a total fit, and second, if the Sox won, she would be so caught up in the game that she would just accept it at face value.

George rather doubted that, and there was then the problem of keeping his cover for Alf's sake. But he did bring his wand with him, sequestered carefully in the arm of his heavy sweater. It felt good to have it so close to him out in public again, even if he doubted he'd ever get the chance to use it.

The visiting team batted, and made three quick outs. Michelle leaned forward slightly. "Dustin's leading off." She informed him. "My favorite player."

"I hadn't noticed." George said, wryly. He'd already bought her a shirt with the player's name on the back of it for her birthday, upcoming in May. Around him the excitement was palpable; the diminutive second baseman stepped in to the batter's box, and launched the first pitch high and deep, but unfortunately foul, into the upper deck. Michelle, who had leapt up, sighed. "Lucky bastard." She quipped, watching the fan who'd caught the foul. "I've never even been close to catching one."

George watched her forlornly look at the glove she'd brought along, borrowed from Alf, and he smiled very quietly to himself.

WWWWWWWW

Alf and Tony were sprawled on the floor in the living-room of the Castelli house, watching the game and doing their homework at the same time. Alf looked over Tony's shoulder. "Algebra looks brutal." He said, with a frown. Tony was a year ahead of him in school.

"You have no idea!" Tony groaned. "I wish I'd inherited Dad's head for math."

At that moment, the first Sox batter of the year, the second baseman, stepped in to the box, and both Tony and Alf looked up. "Where are they sitting?" Tony asked.

"On the monster." Alf said, with the appropriate reverence.

"Ah." Tony chewed on his pencil, and they both sat upright when the first pitch was launched deep but foul into the left field stands. "He just missed that!" Tony lamented.

"Next one, maybe." Alf consoled.

It was another two pitches before batter connected again, and Tony groaned. "Fly ball. Not deep enough."

Alf watched the ball's ark. "It's carrying well…maybe it will be off the wall." He could see the opponent's left fielder going back as if he could make the play.

Suddenly the strangest thing happened…the ball seemed to rise abruptly as if caught in an updraft. With an arc, it zipped into the seats on top of the wall...and right in to…

"Aunt Shell's glove!" Tony whooped. "Did you see that!"

Alf smacked himself in the head, cringing. "Oh…no he didn't…" Tony stared at him strangely. Jimmy ran in.

"What happened."

"Dad…you had to see the home run Pedroia just hit…" Tony enthused. "And Aunt Michelle CAUGHT IT!"

Sure enough, Michelle, George clearly just out of camera shot, was all over the camera, while the announcers were going crazy.

"_I'm telling you folks, that's __**some**__ wind we've got at the park tonight…I guess the friendly spirits are here in droves for the old town team! What a shot by Pedroia…and a nice catch by the young lady!"_

Jimmy was looking at Alf. "Hey, buddy, you okay? You don't look so good."

"Fine." Alf said. _I am going to kill my father, but fine._ "I wonder if anything else strange will happen tonight?"

WWWWWW

Nothing else strange did happen. George picked Alf up at the end of the evening, and a beaming and thrilled Michelle, showing off her trophy, headed back to her own house, as it was a "school night." Alf waited until they were alone before trying to find a way to ask, without getting himself grounded, if his father had lost his mind.

George beat him to the punch. "Save it, kiddo." He groaned. "I know it was the stupidest thing I could have done."

Alf was startled that his nice little speech had been so neatly forestalled. "Right. When I said it would be a nice idea to demonstrate something, I was thinking more along the lines of a little levitation charm, or maybe _Aloha Mora_ on the car door."

"I know…I know…" George sat on the sofa and put his head in his hands. "But when she said she'd always wanted to catch a home run…I just figured if one got close, I'd help it along." He looked imploringly at Alf. "Was it obvious?"

Alf couldn't help but laugh. "Dad, you nearly made the ball do a somersault and back twist. The entire New England region is going to be wondering about that one!" He sighed. "Fortunately you weren't really visible at all." Alf threw himself on the sofa next to him. "So…how'd she take it?"

"She didn't notice." George sighed, leaning backwards. "Right as he hit it, she dropped her pen. She was rooting about on the floor for the thing while I was concentrating on working the damned ball into the stands. She stood up, ball lands nearly in her lap. She's thrilled, and completely clueless how the heck it happened."

"Ugh." Alf gave him a quick hug. "Sorry about that. So…nothing else?"

"Lost my nerve after that." He admitted. "I dunno Alf. That stupid trick wasn't _easy_…and it didn't impress her at all."

"Wait till she sees the replay." Alf consoled.

WWWWW

Michelle Fabry was at that moment watching the replay on ESPN. While the announcers gushed, she was, quite clearly, horrified.

"Oh, NO!" Rufus picked up his head and looked at her. "I can't believe I did that!" She rubbed at her forehead vigorously.

Rufus gave a little whine, and came over to her, raising a paw. She sat on the sofa, and for once let the dog get up next to her, laying his head on her knee and appearing to listen to her intently. "It's nearly thirty years since I last did accidental magic, Rufus!" She moaned. "I know I wanted to catch a ball badly, but STILL…" She laughed. "Clearly I've been letting my magic get frustrated, although I'd have thought that healing Alf in the hospital would have released the energy."

Rufus gave an appealing little noise that might have been agreement or sympathy. She sighed, rubbing his head. "Thank God George is so beautifully clueless..."

She grinned, thinking of George, with his easy nature, and fine sense of humor. Yes, surely he'd be okay with the magic thing, especially when she swore to him that she was more than willing to live a muggle life. True, she _missed _magic sometimes, but she was fairly certain that the trade-off for George and Alf would be worth it. Besides, George wasn't like Tony, and maybe he wouldn't mind her cleaning the dishes with a flick of the wand, or assisting a poorly growing plant. Most assuredly he wouldn't mind that she'd healed his son.

She knew, with all her mind, that George wouldn't hate her being a witch. She just wished she could get her heart around it.

Besides, they'd promised each other they'd wait until June. So wait they would.

WWWWW

"Don't be an idiot, Dudders…of course your Mum and I are coming to see the new place, and help you move in. That silly wife of yours surely won't object."

Dudley Dursley watched his tolerant, long-suffering wife just beyond the hallway shrug theatrically. Kim was always gracious to his parents, always kind to every veiled insult, and always exceptionally happy to see them leave.

"…besides, been an age since we saw little Hank, it is…" Dudley's father rambled on.

Dudley counted to ten. "His name is Harry, Dad. I wouldn't think you'd have a problem remembering it." _Although I suppose I should be happy he doesn't call him __**boy. **__That was what poor cousin Harry was stuck with._

Not for the first time Dudley wondered, and worried, whatever had become of Harry Potter. Not that he'd have expected a Christmas card or anything. And probably poor Harry was dead…things had looked pretty rum there when they were spirited out of England. "You can come for that weekend in June. Let Kim and I get the house set up properly for you and Mum. Besides, your business is busy right now, isn't it."

Dudley was pleased to hear his Dad go off on a tangent, waxing rhapsodic about his work for a major national chain hardware store and about how he was about to ruthlessly put his neighbor out of business. While half ignoring the man, Dudley watched little Harry in the front yard, secure behind the fence. A ten year old boy, a red head, was walking home from school, and Harry exuberantly threw him the ball. With relief, Dudley saw the kid retrieve it and bring it back to his son, with a kind smile. Kim came up to them both, having gone out to watch Harry, and they exchanged what appeared to be pleasant words.

Eventually he got his dad off the phone, and Kim came back in, shooing Harry off for a bath. "See that, Dudley?"

One of the many things Dudley loved about Kim was that she never called him by a silly pet name. "Yes…neighbor kid?"

"Across the street…name Weatherby. Seems like a nice one…we should ask your cousin about him…he might be able to baby-sit sometime." Kim smiled. "For an hour or two, at least. Lives with his Dad…mum's dead."

"Poor guy." Dudley said, immediately. "Although you amaze me, woman, that you can get that much info in about three minutes."

Kim laughed at him, and threw him a diet soda from the fridge. "Shame you're heading out on business next week, it would be nice to meet some of the neighbors."

"Wish I didn't have to, but it won't be long." He stood by the window, and then looked at the fireplace…a gloriously real working fireplace. Something stirred in his memory…surely he'd seen that kid before? Nah, no way he could have. He just reminded him of someone.

Oh, well. The resemblance would come to him eventually, no doubt.

There was a great crash from the bedroom, and he heard Kim groan. "Oh, Harry…what made you want to climb up on the BOOKCASE?"

Dudley chuckled, and headed in to the next room with a grin. "Cleanup on aisle five, eh, big guy?" He roared, good naturedly.

The neighbor child was quickly forgotten.

WWWWWWW

"Stay close, now, boy, and don't go talking to people you don't know. Remember you only have one purpose in life, and that time has not yet come. Got it?" Amos Diggory stared down very hard at his young son, as they strolled through Hogsmead.

"Yes, Father." CJ said, without any hint of emotion whatsoever.

Oh, but it was _hard_. CJ had rarely been off their lonely grounds, and here he was, surrounded by people, by excitement, by a whole world full of happiness! If only he could be a part, in just some small way, of this place. But somehow that seemed as likely as the sun coming up in the west…CJ Diggory would never belong, not anywhere.

He noticed several people staring at them, some even being so unsubtle as to stumble and gasp when they spotted Amos Diggory and his mystery child, CJ felt self conscious, awkward, and faintly angry, although he wasn't quite sure why.

Then, he came to a complete stop in front of a moderately sized store front. The building was painted an iridescent purple, and neon yellow lettering blazed on signs advertising things like pygmy puffs, skiving snackboxes, booming boomerangs, and other items right out of a boy's fantasy. A huge sign, in bright pea green lettering, blazed above the window: Weasleys' Wizards Wheezes II. So this was it…

Roughly his father's hand dug in to his shoulder, and CJ winced. A voice growled to him, "Boy, you are in for a world of hurt when I get you home…what are you about staring at that place…besides, you know that's not the one. Now come ON, we've got to get to the Hogs Head."

CJ rubbed his shoulder, and sighed with resignation behind the mask of indifference he wore. Yes, he knew that his father was particularly obsessed with the main branch, in Diagon Alley...it didn't make the Hogsmead branch any less of a point of interest to him. Besides...it looked...well, _cool_. Fortunately he had far too much sense to mention THAT to his father; he was already in for enough punishment as it was.

The dingy, grimy bar ahead of them was actually crowded; the place had earned a certain cache after the war, from what he'd heard. And indeed, awards, newspaper clippings, and mementos from that day covered the wall. Amos steered them towards an empty table and ordered them both soup; Amos also had a beer.

"Wait..." He whispered to CJ. "For my sign. If you can do THAT, boy, your beating might not be so bad." Amos growled under his breath.

"Yes...father..." CJ sighed. He strongly doubted whatever he did would manage to please the man. But he had to try...for Cedric, he had to try.

WWWWWWW

Arthur Weasley was having a beer at the bar at the Hogs Head when he saw Amos Diggory come in with his young son, and he nearly fell off the barstool in shock.

Arthur hadn't seen Amos since eleven years ago. Right after Cedric's death, Amos had abruptly quit his job, claiming that the ministry was a sham and a fraud, and defaming the memory of his son. (Arthur hadn't been in disagreement with him on any of that, however, Amos had a personal fortune and had the luxury of open defiance before him.) He'd heard, of course, about the birth of CJ, and of how his mother died in the process; he'd also heard that Amos lived like a hermit and had gone slightly mad. So it was with some curiosity that he watched the pair.

He noted immediately that the boy looked rather overwhelmed, and perhaps a bit sullen. Amos, however, looked much as he ever did when they were co-workers, just as jovial and hearty. Indeed, Amos caught his eye and proceeded to wave him over with a grin. "Weasley! Haven't seen you in an age!"

Arthur came over to him gladly. Funny...he'd been having these strange dreams where Fred had urged him to go to the Hogs Head on this day...perhaps this was why? "Amos Diggory...it is **good** to see you!" Arthur took his hand enthusiastically. "And this fine young man is?"

"That's my CJ." Amos thrust his chest out in the way he used to brag on Cedric. "Ten years old, he is...I hope he'll be at Hogwarts next year!"

For a second Arthur caught a funny glint in the man's eye, but it faded so quickly that he was sure he imagined it. "Excellent! I have a grandson the same age...Fred's boy, perhaps you heard?"

"Ah...well...word doesn't reach me much where we live...why don't you pull up a stool and tell me what's been up with your vast clan, eh?" Amos motioned to the spot next to him.

And that, CJ knew, was his cue. "Father, can I look at the posters around the bar? I promise I won't go far." He appealed.

"Course, my boy...course...mind your manners now!" Amos looked everything that a jovial, doting father ought to be. CJ remained a veiled shell of a child.

But as dismissed, he meandered through the crowd, with the distinct purpose of accessing where the back rooms were. Just like Cedric had told him.

WWWWW

"Another mouse down!" Hermione sighed, feeling hopeless.

"I don't understand!" Draco's mouth pursed into a scowl. "We have done everything right...we have!"

"Clearly not." Severus Snape drawled from the portrait. "Surely the two finest potions brains of their generation are not giving up?"

"Severus...we've been over every ingredient and every increment...we've aged it, not aged it, boiled it, steamed it...simmered it gently under a phosphorescent flame...nothing s working!" Draco pounded his fist into his hand.

"Um, excuse me..." A quiet, world weary voice interrupted them, and at once Hermione and Draco whirled around. A young boy was before them, trying to look bored, but clearly enticed by the living test mice. He came round to check them out, pretending to ignore the bubbling cauldron. "Nice mice. New Zealand Borers, right."

"Young man." Draco drawled out, sounding about ready to snap. "This is a private room. You are emphatically not welcome."

Hermione was studying him, however. "Are you...you can't be...related to..."

"Cedric Diggory." CJ ignored Draco and looked up carefully at Hermione. "He was my brother." He poked around the ingredients, as Draco got rather red in the face, looking like he was about to forcibly throw the boy out on his ear. "Rare, these mice are. You know my brother wrote his seventh year care of magical creatures paper on them." CJ paused. "My father had it bound after he died."

"How very fascinating." Snape drawled from the portrait. "I was unaware that your brother excelled in anything beyond preening for the ladies."

CJ stiffened slightly, but held his tongue. "What potion are you brewing, can I ask? It looks complicated."

Hermione hesitated; Draco folded his arms around his mid-section. "You can ask, of course. Anybody can _ask._" He sounded like his old scathing self. "But you have no reason to expect an answer, or anything other than one of us forcibly removing you. This is no place for a CHILD." He said, with the maximum scorn he could imagine.

CJ's eyes were unfathomable, like flints in the night. "Perhaps not. I just thought it was interesting, you using this stuff..." He motioned to a finely chopped plant in a tube before them. "Lubranium Wilsap, isn't it? I mean, I may only be a _child_..." He matched Draco's drawl. "But I've read Cedric's paper enough to know that New Zealand Borers are highly allergic to the stuff. Kills them. Sometimes the reaction can be delayed, but it's quite fatal in the end. The stuff's fouled a lot of potions testing before. That's why most researchers use India Gold mice for testing potions that contain it." CJ shrugged theatrically. "Well, goodbye then...my father will be waiting for me."

He slid out of the room, and Draco and Hermione gaped after him. Draco found his voice first. "That little, insolent, imperious brat needs to learn some manners. He isn't the least like his brother at all!" He scowled.

"Actually, Draco, he rather reminds me of you at that age." Hermione pointed out. Draco let his face fall into more neutral lines. "Do we think he's right?"

Snape was thinking furiously, stroking the side of his face with a single finger. "He could be...Diggory was quite good with magical creatures...and it was never my forte." He looked between them. "Hagrid didn't say anything?"

"It's doubtful Hagrid knows we're using Wilsap...it's exceedingly rare." Draco admitted. "Well, we can't afford to ignore this...we'll have to check it out." He turned to Hermione with a wan smile, and then went to the cage of mice. "Looks like you folks got a stay of execution." He spoke to them. "Perhaps Scorpius would care for some pets."

"I'll work on locating India Golds." Hermione packed up her notes. "Charlie ought to be able to point us in the right direction."

They carefully stored their supplies in the secure cabinet they'd been provided. The boy may or may not be an obnoxious brat, but if he'd inadvertently helped with the potion, they would be forever in his debt.

WWWWWWW

CJ lay stiffly on his bed later that night, having been just tended to by Dixie. His father, pleased by CJ's fulfillment of his mission, even if the man certainly didn't understand it, had not used cruciatus or any other various magical tortures at his disposal, instead simply physically beating him. Well, a few bruises and some pain were nothing new, and at least that could be treated by his house elves. It was all worth it, wasn't it? He'd done as Cedric asked.

Indeed, when Cedric suddenly materialized before him, he actually managed a real smile. "I did it, Ced!" He whispered proudly. "Just like you said...they know the mice are not dying from the potion, now...they know!"

Cedric came and sat by the bed, and gently laid an icy hand on CJ's bruised face. He held back tears as he looked down at him. "You did, buddy; you did everything I asked for. But at what cost?" The last words came out in a whisper.

CJ scoffed lightly, though he winced at the same time. "I've had worse."

Cedric shook his head sadly. "That does not make me feel better. But I promise you, CJ, what you've done today, it will make everything better, with time. It will."


	14. Ch 14, May, 2009

May 15

"So...what did you get Miss Fabry for her birthday?" Alf grinned up at George, watching his father rather nervously try to get in to a suit, never his favorite form of muggle clothing.

"Bloody hell!" Was George's response, as he wrestled with his necktie.

"Here." Alf came over to help, standing on the cedar chest to do so. "Mum taught me how to do this...said a gentlemen ought to know how to knot a tie." Alf focused and was slow about it, but he did know what needed to be woven where, and he was steady and sure.

"Thanks." George said. "The ties we had a Hogwarts actually adhered by magic."

"Much more sensible, I'm sure." Alf nodded, smoothing the blue silk down. "But I think she'll find you very handsome."

"Well of course she will...I AM very handsome." George quipped, scooping Alf down to the floor. Then he looked in the mirror and sighed. "Or at least well dressed." He scowled at himself. "For a red haired, overly freckled, one-eared scarecrow."

"Hey...I resemble that remark." Alf teased. Then he put his hand over his ear. "Or at least, I could."

George wrapped his arm around the boy. "You are much better looking than Fred and I ever were, not that he'd admit it."

"Right...this explaining how we were able to recognize each other within about three point zero seconds of meeting." Alf sat on the desk chair, and watched his father nervously fiddling with his cuffs. "Are you going to ask her to marry you tonight?"

"No ring." He said, honestly. "I got her a Red Sox shirt, but gave that to her earlier…it didn't seem the sort of thing one handed out at a four star restaurant." George nodded over towards a box on the dresser, and Alf went to look at it. Inside was a beautifully worked bit of silver, a bracelet with a single stone in the setting, an emerald. "Well?" George asked, nervously.

Alf raised his eyebrows. "Are you kidding? She'll love it." He smiled rather affectionately at George. "I can't believe how nervous you are."

George managed a wry smile. "I never had the sort of luck with women that Fred did, let alone Charlie or Bill." He muttered. "I just might have had a better track record than Ron, except Hermione refused to let him be stupid enough to blow it."

Alf laughed. "You leave Uncle Percy conspicuously absent!" He pointed out.

"Percy and Penny fell in love in about two seconds and that was it. It's hard to have a competition with somebody who refuses to play the game." George mussed with his hair, trying desperately to hide the patch of scarred skin where his ear once was, but it was no use; although his hair was long enough to make it not obvious, nevertheless the scar was THERE. He once again wished he'd been more sympathetic to Harry before he realized the sort burden it was.

Alf came to him again, and once more stood on the box. With determination he moved George's hair back to its natural state, so that it wasn't obvious that he was trying to hide the scar. "She's seen you before, you know." He said, rather kindly. "And she loves you, as is."

George gave Alf's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You are far to smart for your age, Alfred. It quite scares me sometimes."

There was a chime from downstairs, one that George recognized as the floo. Startled, he reached for his wand, and instinctively moved Alf behind him. Together they headed down to the living-room, though George motioned repeatedly for Alf to stop following him, and Alf merely crossed his arms and stubbornly stuck out his chin.

"George, Alf?" A familiar voice called from the fireplace. George relaxed; Hermione! They both sighed in relief as they turned the corner.

She was dusting her robes off, before turning with a half smile to face them. She paused on seeing George. "Oh, dear, am I interrupting? I do hope you don't dress like that everyday, George; quite not what a muggle author would do."

"He has a dinner date." Alf said, smugly, as he came over to give Hermione a hug.

"Ah, yes…I've heard something or other about a young lady." She came over and kissed George on the cheek.

"Hermione…" George hugged her back. "I suppose I should be happy you don't come with Ron!"

"Indeed." She looked around briefly, and then went over to the sofa. "You'd best join me, gentlemen…obviously, you will be having company shortly…although whether what I am about to tell you changes your plans, I cannot say."

"Huh?" George and Alf said together.

Hermione whipped her hair around to the back. "Well, it's the classic good news-bad news set up, I suppose. Which do you want first?"

"Good." George said, immediately.

"Bad." Alf said, simultaneously.

They looked at each other with worried eyes, and then shrugged, and turned back to Hermione.

"Right, well…we've got the potion done." She said. "Perfectly."

George took a deep breath. "Wait…no more dead mice? What were you doing wrong? Are you sure, Hermione? VERY sure? I won't be risking Alf for anything!"

"George…" She looked almost McGonagle-stern. "When I say 'perfect', when have you ever known me to mean 'almost'?" She scolded. "Turns out there was a problem with our test animals with that first batch. The species was allergic to one of the key, rare ingredients. We've been in test for a month now with a more neutral species, and they're thriving."

George and Alf looked at each other, and then both broke in to broad grins. "Fantastic, Hermione…when do we…I mean, I know there are things we need to prepare here…but…"

"When do I get my magic back?" Alf asked, immediately. 

Hermione arched her brows at them at once. "I've come, actually, to take a sample back from Alf, George. Although there has never, ever, been any sort of human allergic reaction to the ingredients, I'll, as I keep telling no, not risk for Alf to be one of a kind."

"When you say sample…" Alf spoke warily. "Do you mean like a blood test, or something else?"

"Blood test?" George looked confused.

Hermione understood. "It's a simple wave of my wand, Alf…you won't feel more than a pinch, and it will look like you have a small burn on your arm for a day or two. Promise."

"Alright, then." Alf began to roll up his sleeve. "If that was the bad news, I'll take it."

Hermione held her hand up for a moment. "Unfortunately..."

"And here it comes." George said, feeling a pit in his stomach.

"You know, of course, that we've rounded up most of the people in Katie's family who were out to harm Alf. Well, there's one we suspect, but can't prove…her mother, actually…Dorcas Bell." Hermione set her shoulders firm. "George…she's here, in Boston, at least."

Alf stiffened, and George immediately put an arm around him. "Where do we have to go, then, Hermione…just tell me, and we'll do it; we can be out of here in five minutes." He said, at once.

"Dad." Alf whispered. "We can't leave just like that!"

George looked down at him, rather sternly. "We can, and we will, if we have to." His voice was firm, and then he let his eyes slide over to Hermione. "DO we have to?" He asked.

Hermione shook her head. "No, George. The American ministry is all over it. You are as safe here as you could be anywhere…maybe more so. Their security in this country really puts England to shame…but of course they didn't have a ministry run by idiots for years and years. She's being tailed 24-7. As long as you stay within the city limits, you're both fine."

The two of them exhaled. Hermione took advangate to go over to Alf with her wand out, while they looked at each other with concern. "Where is your dinner reservation tonight, Dad…OW!" He turned abruptly and looked at the bright red mark now on his bicep. "PINCHES A LITTLE?" He asked.

"I'm cancelling dinner…I can't leave you alone, Alf, not even for a few hours, not after hearing that." George said, immediately.

Alf's eyes were wide. "Dad, it's her birthday…you _have_ to go."

George shook his head and went to the phone, wondering what he would tell Michelle, since the truth was so entirely implausible, not to mention impossible at the current time.

"I'll stay." Hermione said. "George, don't let your life be dictated by a nut job."

He hesitated, with his hand on the receiver. "Mi, I can't ask you to do that…you've got to get home yourself."

She shook her head. "Ron and the kids are at your Mum's…it's a family dinner night. I'd be happy to stay here…I am certain, from all I hear, you must have some palatable leftovers."

"Lasagne!" Alf said at once. "It rocks!"

"Right, see? And I know you're not questioning my skill as a witch, George. Go; I know how often I see you in a suit, this was clearly a big night. I will contact you at once if anything arises, but believe me when I tell you that you have never been safer." Hermione rose and came over to him. "Go, George." She squeezed his shoulder.

George looked carefully at Alf, who was smiling his best at him. "Don't forget that bracelet."

"Right." He took a deep breath. "And you'll call me at once if ANYTHING goes wrong?"

"Right after I vivisect the threatening invaders, yes." She smiled primly at him.

George felt some of the fear fall away. This was Hermione; everything would be fine.

He trotted upstairs to grab his gift, and hoped that Alf, as he had the habit of being, was once again right about everything.

WWWWWWW

Some philosopher, George thought, had once said that when things go wrong, no matter how much you wish it, you are never fortunate enough to die. He felt, by the end of the dinner, as if he were the living example of that saying. Because mortification began early and reoccurred often.

First, the restaurant, one of Salem's best, botched the reservation, and they ended up at a cramped table towards the back near the kitchen. Then, they were seated next to a family that seemed to believe it advisable to bring a five year old to a four star restaurant, and let him run wild, right to the point of the high pitched wail he set up when he poured tea on himself.

Then the waiter, trying to sooth the child before its angry and entirely unjustified parents could follow through in the attempt to sue, managed to dump both wine glasses on to Michelle's dress. She was of course wearing white; the wine was, of course, red. George, on the other hand, got his tie in the chocolate mouse when he leaned over to help Michelle clean off.

To top it all, as they walked out the skies opened up and an unexpected rain storm dumped down over them, sending them running to the car, only to discover that he'd locked the keys inside.

_This isn't happening…it isn't. I have absolutely no luck with women…it's like I'm cursed!_

Then, Michelle burst out laughing, and taking a look at his face, she reached up and kissed him full. He might be cursed, but he was no fool…he kissed her back, embracing her close, as they stood together in the pouring rain.

"You are insane, woman." He murmured, laughing himself, when they came up for air.

"Quite probably." She admitted, running her hands through his wet hair. "Oh, George… I cannot believe how wonderful you are. Not a thing went right tonight, and you just kept taking it all in stride, never lost your sense of humor, not even once!"

"Fortunately you couldn't hear what I was thinking." He quipped. The rain did, in fact, seem to be lightening up. "Well, shall we walk back home? It's little more than a mile, and we surely can't get much wetter."

With a wide grin, she took his offered arm, and they began to stroll, just as the rain quit. Within a few hundred yards, the clouds parted and a beautiful moon seemed to hang down and be within their reach.

Something in it set George talking. "Shell…I love you. I know we've said it before, but I need you to hear it tonight. I know that I still can't tell you everything…I actually had a scare tonight that reminded me of that. But soon…very soon. And once we have all that nonsense cleared up, I want to ask you to marry me." He gave a slight chuckle. "Actually I think I just did...so I guess I'm asking to say yes, once we get the mess out of the way."

Michelle leaned in next to him, holding his hand tightly, their fingers interlaced. "George…" She said. "I love you, and I love your son. I'm not quite sure how I got so lucky to get such a great package deal. And I know you can't tell me everything…but if I guess, will you let me know if I'm right?" She sounded faintly nervous.

George almost snorted. "Shell, if you guess, you will have to revive me from the cold dead faint I will be in!"

She ignored his teasing, and seemed to set herself. "George, is there some kind of custody battle going on? You seem to be, somewhat, on the lam with Alf. You keep your past so guarded, and your family, what I've met of them, seems to help you in that." She took a deep breath. "I need to say this, because it's the only thing I can think of that would be an issue for me, but if Alf's mother is still alive and you're keeping him from her…George, I don't think I could bear that!"

He stopped and looked down at her face, and her worried look, and with a little smile he kissed her forehead tenderly. "I love how concerned you get for him. As much as I love you, if you couldn't care about Alf, we couldn't be together. But no, Shell, I guarantee you, Alf's mother is quite dead. He's a bright kid, but not that good of an actor." George chewed on his lip thoughtfully. "You know, though…it is, in a way, a custody issue. That is, his mother's family is, to tell you what I can, quite against me. Legally I have full rights, but they are nefarious, to put it mildly. Until they have been brought to justice, I just need to keep Alfred away from them. I will not let him be harmed, Shell, and I guarantee you I would have had his mother's blessing in all I have done."

She relaxed, hugging him, resting her head against his chest. "Thank you…for telling me what you could. And I believe you…You know, Jimmy's son is going on about you maybe being in the witness protection program, and it almost sounds like you are. But that's enough. I just couldn't think of stealing another woman's child, though it seemed so unlikely you would ever do anything to hurt Alf."

"Not intentionally." George murmured. "I don't claim to be a perfect father, but what mistakes I have made, I have made out of love."

They stood for a moment more, until they resumed their stroll. "I am surprised…" She asked, hesitantly, that given what you just told me, you let him stay alone tonight."

"I didn't." He said. "There's a trusted family friend in town, and she is watching him."

"She?" Michelle asked, with just a hind of a question. George laughed.

"She is also married to one of my brothers. Don't worry, Shell…she has scared the hell out of me since we were all kids." They continued onward, and she nuzzled against him once more. But he took a deep breath, thinking about Hermione's good news. "Shell, I know nothing is settled, but I need you to just maybe think about it…if I can go back to England, would you be willing to come with me?"

She squeezed his arm. "Of course." She took a deep breath. "I have no real ties here, no family. A few friends, of course, but the world is much smaller now than it used to be; no hard time in keeping up with folks. And I suppose I can teach there. Besides, I like your family, what I've met of them, anyway." She looked up at him. "And did I tell you, George, just how superbly handsome you look tonight?"

"Before or after I dipped my only tie in chocolate sauce?" He asked, blushing.

"Before, after, during." She murmured. "How did I get so lucky?"

"It must be a result of the temporary blindness that set in just when you met me." He poked fun at himself. "Either that or you find scars sexy."

"I find you sexy, scars and all." She squeezed his hand. "Why do you always put yourself down so much, George? You are quite the least conceited man I have ever met."

He gave a half laugh, but didn't answer. Maybe a part of it was a left over feeling from his childhood, and the long misunderstanding that had existed between him and his mother. Maybe it was just growing up with Bill in all his woman-swooning glory. But he truly couldn't understand why she would find him attractive, physically, at least. Then again, the why didn't much matter, did it? The point was, she did.

They were at the door now. "What will you do with your car?" She asked, hugging him.

"Pick it up tomorrow…I have spares in the house." He sighed in resignation, "School night, right?"

"Mmm hmmm." She matched his sigh, separating from him. "But the weekend is fast upon us, and June following." She met his eye firmly. "And whatever you tell me, the answer is yes, George…assuming that what I tell you doesn't set you screaming."

"Not a chance." George said.

A screen door closed behind them, and George waved to a woman dragging out garbage. "Mrs. O'Malley." He said, quietly to Michelle, not sure if she'd met the new neighbors.

"It's not O'Malley." She corrected him. "Although for the life of me I can't remember what it is…some funny name begins with a D. Nice folks, though…cute kid."

"He's quite taken with Alf." George admitted. "And she seems like a great mother… haven't met the husband yet. Travels a lot."

"I've met him. Big guy, like O'Malley, but not his personality." She added.

George nodded. "So I've heard. Anyway, glad you mentioned that they're not O'Malley's. I'd have hated to look stupid when I did meet them next."

"George dear, I keep telling you, you couldn't look stupid if you tried." She gave him another kiss. "And I have to go. Say goodnight to Alf for me…and your mystery babysitter."

"Will do." George watched her go, his hand in his pockets, and he whistled slightly. Alf was close to a cure and the woman he loved seemed to love him back. He could take the occasional bad news in stride, with so much going for him.

Hermione looked up when he game in. She studied his face for a moment, and then gave him her most gentle smile, coming up to embrace him. "I am quite happy for you George, although sorry not to get to meet her." She kissed him on the cheek. "Alf is upstairs, although I strongly doubt he is sleeping. Go check on him."

"Thanks, Mi." He watched her head towards the floo. "I am a lucky guy."

She winked at him. "You've made your own luck, George. Good night."

He watched her spin away, and then went up to regale his son with the events of his evening; or at least the pg-rated ones.


	15. Ch 15, June 2009, I

The date of Saturday, June 15, was never far from George's mind.

George and Michelle would be meeting for a picnic in the park grounds. It was the perfect place for them to have a quiet, private discussion, and for George to perhaps demonstrate a simple spell or two. He would pack a light luncheon basket (well, as light as he ever packed anything) and had bought a ring, with the help of the Salem ministry. It was goblin made, pure gold, delicate but sturdy, and with yet another emerald in its center. It had not been cheap, but she was decidedly worth it. At least, she would be, if she didn't run screaming from his truth.

But today was Friday...a glorious day, and Alf's last day of school. George was looking forward to his arrival, for many reasons...not the least of which was that it was their first anniversary. It had been just a year ago that Alfred had shown up unexpectedly at the shop and turned his life inside out, in every good way. He could barely remember sometimes the man he had been then.

Even better, word from Hermione was that the potion was a pronounced success. So he already planned, should Michelle's answer tomorrow be favorable, to return to England within a week. That should give Alf a chance to part with his friends, would let Michelle hand in her resignation and explain herself to friends as appropriate, and let him pack up the house. And, of course, burn his novel...lord help him if Harry ever found out!

The screen door slammed, and Alf came skidding in. "All A's!" He said, proudly, positively beaming with the accomplishment. "And not just in Miss Fabry's classes, either!"

George grinned, and hefted him up in a bear hug. Alf was quite nearly five feet tall now, and almost too big for this, which made George just a little sad. "I am so proud of you. This hasn't been an easy transition, I know."

"Not for either of us!" Alf admitted. His eyes lit up when he saw the beautiful concoction sitting on the counter. "Cake? Who's coming over? I thought Miss Fabry was out this evening?"

"She is." George said, getting plates out. Michelle had a girls' night out with some friends of hers in a neighboring town, and had even taken Rufus with her. He rather wondered what she would be saying about him, and about tomorrow, but kept trying to put it in back of his mind. "The cake is for us, Alf...it's our anniversary."

Alf gaped. "Has it been a year? God, Dad, I'm sorry...I should have remembered."

"I didn't expect you to remember." George pointed out, handing him the plates and steering them both to the table to cut the cake. "Why would June 14 have been anything special to you last year that you remember the date to begin with. However, for me, it's on all the adoption papers." He sliced into the cake, a German Chocolate one, and with Alf put a piece on each of their plates. "It's been a good year." He whispered into Alf's hair.

Alf was quite still for a moment, and then abruptly he darted away from George and ran up the stairs, to his room, leaving his father standing there with a cake knife and an open mouth. The door slammed, and then he heard, though faintly, the sound of Alfred sobbing.

"What did I do?" George wondered, tears in his own eyes just from the sound Alfred was making. Quickly he put the knife down, and trying to keep himself calm, he followed his son.

WWWWWWW

He opened the bedroom door slowly; Alf had thrown himself on his bed, and was crying, and crying _ugly_, big gaping sobs nearly making him hyperventilate. George sat down beside him almost at a loss; the few times he'd seem Alf really cry before he'd been well aware of what had caused it...whether being in pain from skele-grow or from that anguished scene they'd had when he'd set of the fireworks. But this was completely unexpected. He rubbed his back, not sure if he should just let him get it out, whatever "it" was, or if he should try to coax him into stopping.

"Did I say something, Alf?" He tried, gently. "I'm sorry if I did."

After a few seconds, Alf managed to gasp out a few words. "I'm...I'm a terr-terrible son!" He broke down again.

George became more forceful stroking the boy's shoulders. "You most certainly are NOT!" He insisted.

"I...I am! My mum's been d-dead a y-year...since last t-Tuesday...and I didn't even think about it!" Alf pounded his head back into the pillow, like he'd wished it would just swallow him up.

_I...am...an...idiot!_ George thought, totally having forgotten that the anniversary of Alf's arrival in _his_ life would have essentially coincided with another anniversary for Alfred. "Hush, child." He soothed, lifting the boy from the pillow and hugging him close. "It's okay...It's okay..." He started rocking him back and forth gently, while Alf buried his head against his chest. "I should have thought about that, but I didn't...for me, having you in my life has been everything happy, and I forgot that you have sad feelings from that time, too."

Alf shuddered hard, and hiccupped, and tried, desperately, to pull himself together. "But that's what makes it so bad." He squeaked out. "I _am_ happy...I wasn't thinking of her because I'm happy...sometimes it seems like we've been together forever, but if that were true it's like saying she never existed, and that's t-terrible." He sniffed, and was still shaking, and threatening to resume sobbing at any moment.

To hell with not using magic...George pulled out his wand and conjured a glass of water from the fridge, and a box of tissues. "Drink." He urged, holding the glass for Alf, hoping that would force him to settle down a bit. "Now blow." He handed over the tissues, and watched Alf mop up his nose and his face. He stroked the boy's cheek gently, trying to cool his face down. "I feel like we've been together forever too. But you have to remember, Alf, we're not strangers. We never were, even when we just met. Fred's blood flows between us, and connects us in a way that's special. I'm not going to apologize for that. And what's more, I think your Mum pretty strongly suspected that would happen, and that's why she wanted us to be together."

He conjured next a cool face cloth, and wiped at Alf's tear stained face. "And you haven't forgotten her, have you? Just because she's not at the front of the mind all the time, doesn't mean she's not at the back of it. You were certainly thinking of her at Christmas, and I see you, often, rubbing at that box where you keep her ring...I don't even think you know you're doing it half the time."

Alf calmed considerably as George kept stroking his face. "Things happen the way they happen, and the only thing we mortals can do is make the best of them. Fred didn't plan on dying and leaving behind a child; neither did your mum. Both happened. I didn't plan on losing my brother and best friend and living in a bloody fog for ten years. But it happened. And we've been thrown together because of that, and we could have fought it, we could have come to blows, or we could have rejected each other, but we didn't, and I'm glad." He reached down and kissed Alf on the forehead. "I am so glad, and I only wanted you know just how much you mean to me."

Alf took another tissue to blow his nose, and then leaned in against George with a sigh. "I know. I'm glad too." He said, quietly. "I don't know why I went off like that...it just hit me hard all of a sudden."

George managed a quiet laugh. "I wish I _had_ thought of it, kiddo. I might have been a little more subtle in how I handled things. I mean, I wasn't surprised at Christmas when you were missing her, but, like I said, today is such a happy day for me that I just didn't think about it."

They were both quiet for a few moments, George keeping his arms draped loosely around his son, Alf taking deep breaths, cheek resting against his father's chest, holding on to him tightly. "Sometimes I don't know who else would put up with me Dad."

"Yeah..." George drawled out. "You're such a terrible burden. Star athlete, 'A' student, good friend, misguidedly complimentary about my own skills and abilities. You suck."

That got a laugh, which George took as something that needed to be augmented by starting a tickling war. In about two minutes they were chasing each other around the room, and then back down the stairs. To the waiting cake.

For a second George thought Alf was going to escalate the situation into a food fight, which he normally wouldn't have minded...but...his CAKE! But his son came up short, gave a little sigh, and then headed to the fridge. "We're clearly going to need milk." George exhaled visibly, and Alf looked at him with horror. "You certainly didn't think I was going to do something like waste _your_ cooking?"

George grinned back at him. "I forgot to list budding gourmand in your list of faults. How remiss of me." He accepted a glass of milk. "So here's to your Mum, Alf. For knowing both of us well enough to know we needed each other."

They clinked glasses, and shared a quiet smile, before settling down to their little celebration.

WWWWWWWWWW

The next morning, a nervous George was repacking his picnic basket for about the 19th time. He heard the phone ring and Alf answered it; George barely registered that a conversation was going on.

_Wine…check…tarragon chicken sandwiches…check…stuffed grape leaves…check…double chocolate cream cheese cupcakes…check…napkins, plates…utensils…RING! _George nearly hurt himself charging up the stairs, almost knocking a bemused Alf over in the process. "Sorry…" He muttered, digging through the drawer for his carefully purchased engagement ring.

"Running across the street for just a sec, Dad." Alf called up to him.

"Right…no farther than that!" George was still nervous about Dorcas Bell, for all that Hermione told him they were safe. With relief he found the ring, and he turned and walked more calmly down the stairs. He'd be meeting Shell in the park in an hour and a half, and he didn't want to screw anything up…unlike her birthday!

Alf was back as he was finally, confidently, packing the basket for the final time. "Hey, Dad…you want the good news or the bad news first?"

George paused, and looked over his nearly smirking son. "Surprise me…" He said, warily.

"That was Mr. Castelli on the phone. Tony has chicken pox and I can't go over there today, as I haven't had them yet." Alf said, quite calmly.

George felt like he had the wind knocked out of him. He'd counted on Jimmy being able to keep an eye on Alf. A week ago leaving his incredibly responsible 11 year old son alone for a couple of hours wouldn't have bothered him, but given the potential danger, he wouldn't consider it now. But it was hardly romantic to have Alf with him while we was officially settling things with Michelle!

"The good news…" Alf grinned at him. "I just popped across to our new neighbors and Mrs. Dorsey was more than happy to have me stay over for the afternoon. Mr. D has gone to pick his parents up from the airport and I believe young Harry is quite a handful, so she' s actually looking forward to the help."

George started breathing again. "Right. Very resourceful of you." He came over to the front door and walked out to the porch…Kim Dorsey was across the street playing with young Harry in the front yard. He waved to her. "You're sure it's not a bother?" George called out.

Kim laughed. "Not at all…I wouldn't want any interruptions in your important romantic business." She teased him, and George turned beet red before glaring down at his son. Alf looked back up at him placidly.

"Well, I wanted to make sure she'd let me stay over." He said, quite calmly. "She's very nice, and she quite agreed that my presence at your marriage proposal might cramp your style."

George huffed lightly, but ruffled Alf's hair at the same time. "Right, kiddo. Thank them for me. You off, then?"

"Yep…good luck, Dad. And stop worrying." Alf reached up to kiss George and give him a quick hug, before darting across the cul-de-sac and greeting a wildly enthusiastic little Harry as if they were long lost friends. George gave a smile…Alf really had that big brother imprint all over him; kids just seemed to hang on his every word. Really, he ought to have more siblings, for all that he worried about it.

_One step at a time, George._ He chuckled to himself.

At that moment, the newest bane of his existence…the cell phone Michelle had talked him in to getting…sprang to life. Fumbling with it slightly, he felt a twinge when he saw it was in fact his soon to be official fiancée. "Hello? Shell?" He said, faintly nervous, as he headed back in to the living room.

"Good morning, love of my life." She said, immediately relaxing him. "I just wanted you to know that I'm leaving a bit later than expected, George, so I might be a few minutes late…I had an interesting evening last night, to say the least."

"I will be waiting for you, for as long as it takes." George said. Then, to his horror, he heard the crackle of the floo. "Listen, I have to finish taking care of our lunch, love. But I'll see you round about 2pm…and then the rest of our life together can begin."

"I do love hearing you say that…I'll see you later!" She replied.

"Love you." He hung up, staring at the image of her number on the screen as he walked over to the floo. Hermione's head was greeting him, and he leaned forward to talk to her. "Mi, what's up?"

She beamed. "I just wanted to tell you that we've got everything ready for you boys to return. And I've heard from the American ministry that Dorcas Bell seems about ready to give up and return to England, for all that she's been poking around asking questions about you. All is well."

"You're a life saver, Mi." He grinned. "Now let me go, so I can get engaged, tell my fiancée her incredible good luck at marrying into someone who can get housework done like magic, and hope she doesn't run screaming from me when I do."

"Good luck, George." She laughed at him. "And we're all looking forward to having you home!"

Home. George came up out of the floo and remembered then to shut the cell phone and pocket it. Funny, this place had started to seem like home. Well, for George Weatherby, it had been a damned good home. But for George Weasley, the image of The Burrow and his siblings and nieces and nephews and parents…THAT was home. And he was looking forward to returning there, with a complete family in tow.

But he couldn't help, just slightly, feel a bit of nostalgia for his muggle dwelling. It had, indeed, served him well.

WWWWWW

Alf sat in the sand box with little Harry, helping him make roads and towns through which he could drive his little trucks. "This is a DUMP truck, Alf." He said, seriously. "They are used to move things."

"You are so smart, Harry." Alf smiled at him seriously. "What are we going to move?"

"Dirt, of course." He said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Alf smiled at him. "Then let's get to it."

Harry's mom came out then, with a pair of tuna sandwiches. "Thought you heavy construction workers could use some sustenance. "

Alf took it gratefully. "Thanks, Mrs. Dorsey."

She gave him a funny smile. "I thought that's what you're dad called me the other day. You must have got our name from Harry…he's got a bit of a lisp. It's actually Dursley."

"Oooh…sorry." He blinked. "And Mr. D introduced himself as just Mr. D when I met him. Didn't mean to spread it around the neighborhood."

"Oh, I don't mind…Dudley's parents probably will, though; they're rather annoying, so I figured I'd give you a head's up. Carry on, now, boys…there are worlds to build." She turned and walked back in to the house.

"Daddy likes being called Mr. D." Harry said, as one who knew everything might. "Because it makes him different from Grandpa." He focused on smoothing a road out for his trucks. "Grandpa is big and blond like Dad…but he has a mustache like Uncle Butch…and he gets really red in the face when he yells."

_Also like Uncle Butch._ Alf shuddered slightly.

"And Grandpa doesn't like my name…he says it reminds him of a freak. And then Daddy gets all angry at him and tells him to shut up about it, this is his house, and there isn't going to be any name calling here." Harry nodded very importantly. "Daddy told me he named me after someone he knew when he was a kid, who he wished he had been nicer to."

Alf didn't quite know what to say to that, and something was nipping at his memory, besides. _Don't I know the name Dursley from somewhere_? He bit into his sandwich thoughtfully.

Harry nudged him. "Can I show you my secret, Alf?" He asked, very importantly. Alf looked in to Harry's big green eyes, so solemn, so serious. The little boy continued. "I showed Grandma once, and she got mad and said everyone would think I was a freak and never to tell anyone so I never have…but I don't think you'll think I'm a freak."

"I promise I won't." Alf said, immediately. "And I think your dad is right…name calling is very ugly, and calling somebody a freak is really, really, ugly."

Thus encouraged, Harry picked up his truck. Staring at it thoughtfully, he made it levitate about three feet in the air and fly over to Alf. Then, tired with the effort, little Harry exhaled, and the truck returned to the dirt.

Alf felt faintly woozy. "Did you just make the truck fly, Harry?"

"Yep." He whispered. "I can do other funny things too… I don't even know how. Once I wanted a book from the top of my bookshelf, and I suddenly found myself sitting right on the top of it. But then when I tried to get down, everything fell over."

Alf took a very deep breath. Because his first reaction was to get angry, and it really wasn't fair to little Harry. But why, WHY should this muggle born child be able to do magic when he, child of a wizard and a witch, was unable to do even the simplest charm? Oh, he knew _why_…knew what had been done to him…but it wasn't fair, it just wasn't!

Harry's green eyes, watching him carefully, filled with tears. "You DO think I'm a freak, too." His lower lip quivered.

"No!" Alf snapped out of his mood at once, realizing how really scary this must be for Harry. "No, you're not a freak at all. Trust me." He rubbed Harry's head quickly. "Your parents don't know you can do these things?"

"No…after Grandma called me a freak I got scared to tell." Harry blinked his tears away. "Daddy wouldn't understand, she said. Said it would scare him."

Something was not quite right, here. Something that Alf thought he SHOULD know. But Alf felt like he had to try and help little Harry. From what he understood, if the boy was a wizard, it would be hard going for him until somehow his situation was explained…his muggle parents surely wouldn't be able to understand their son's special gifts. "I'm going to tell you a secret now, Harry…promise you can keep it?" The little boy nodded, chewing on his sandwich. "I know someone else who can do tricks like you can."

Harry's mouth dropped. "You DO?"

"Yep…my Dad." Alf smiled confidently at the boy, even if he still felt a little funny inside. "My Dad can do even more, too, because as he grew up he went to a special school where they taught him how to use this gift properly. And my Dad isn't a freak at all." Alf finished off his own sandwich, and swallowed. "So here's what I think…if you show my Dad…then maybe my Dad can explain about how it works to your Dad. Sometimes Dads listen to each other even when they don't listen to you. And since my Dad is a grown up, and not a freak, your Dad will understand it's no big deal. How does that sound?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah…that might be okay." He went back to his dump trucks. "I'm glad you're my friend, Alf."

Alfred, letting himself think about how uncertain and worried the little guy might have been if he' d never crossed paths with a proper wizard before, gave a little sigh. "Me too, Harry."

WWWWWWW

It was after three PM. George Weatherby had the perfect picnic spread out before him. Two glasses of wine, two plates of food, two sets of everything. Except for humans. Michelle was now over an hour late. He tried calling her again on that beastly cell phone, but he couldn't reach her. He checked his messages again, and had nothing.

_She'll be here. She will. She just told me I was the love of her life three hours ago. It must just be bad traffic getting here. She won't stand me up. She won't._

George nibbled listlessly on a potato chip, and looked around the hidden copse that they'd found on a walk just a few months earlier. The perfectly secret place to tell her his story, and to hear hers. Life would be wonderful, then. If she showed up.

_She will…she will…she will._

WWWWWWW

Michelle Fabry sat in the veterinary emergency room, pacing, crying, and angry.

Rufus had had to pee. Dogs always managed to find the most inopportune time, didn't they. She knew she shouldn't have brought the Dog for overnight, but her friends loved the great big beast…she'd always done it before! Of course, before it was a lot harder to get somebody to watch him overnight, but now she had George.

Or did she?

She tried the cell phone again, and again it went straight to voice mail. "George, it's Shell…" She tried to keep her voice steady. "Again." She blinked. "Rufus is still in surgery…" She held back a sob. "Stupid car never even stopped after it hit him…" She inhaled hard. "The hospital's in Worcester…please, George, I know we had plans…but I need you…I need you here with me. Rufus is all I've had since Anthony died…and…and I'm not sure he's going to make it. I know he's just a pet, but…but he's mine, George. Please, please call me back. We can talk later…we will talk later…but I need you here NOW."

She fumbled with the phone and hung it up, staring listlessly forward at the posters of various dog foods. They'd just brought Rufus in half an hour ago, after she'd signed papers saying she'd pay whatever it took to cure him. And she would, she would.

Funny. She was a trained medi-witch, and could cure any human ailment. But she'd never had any luck with animal care. She had been able to put Alf back together, but could only stare helplessly when her dog had whimpered, laying on the pavement, looking up at her as if to say, "How did THAT happen?"

She needed George…needed to know that everything was going to be okay. But right now, it seemed like nothing would ever be okay again.

WWWWWW

Dudley came in the front door, his parents behind him criticizing the neighborhood, the lawn, and the paint color of the house with great gusto. Beyond him, in the living room, he could see Alf Weatherby reading to Harry. Nice kid, that. Dudley still often felt like he ought to know him, but he could hardly see how.

"Harry's in the living room…Kim's watching the neighbor's kid, too." Dudley said, bringing his parents forward.

Harry looked up and smiled cautiously at his often cranky grandparents. Alf smiled politely.

And Vernon Dursley exploded.

"_You! You, boy!_" The large, beefy man screamed. "_You bloody hell get away from my grandson, you little freak!_

Alf paled. What the hell was this man on about? He'd never seen him before in his life.

Before Dudley could stop him, Vernon Dursley charged the young red head, who was only a few years younger than Fred Weasley would have been the day a ton-tongue toffee had slipped from his robes. Alf was forcibly picked up and slammed back into the wall. "Freak! How did your kind find us! Had to leave England because of you…you and my bastard nephew Harry! Now there's a wizard sitting in my son's living room!" Vernon's palm connected squarely with Alf's face, sending him gasping in pain, before he was again slammed back into the wall.

"DAD!" Dudley roared. "What are you on about…the kid's name is Alfred Weatherby! Put him DOWN, Dad!" Dudley tried to drag his father away, with no success.

Petunia, lips pursed and frowning, looked lived with rage, as Kim scooped up a sobbing and frightened Harry. "Weatherby? Not likely, Dudley. He's one of those nasty Weasleys your cousin used to go on about."

Alf paled, realizing, slowly, why the name Dursley ought to have been familiar to him…the Dursleys who had been Harry Potter's only relations, and who had treated him like dirt. The magic-hating Dursleys!

Vernon saw the recognition in his face, and sneered. "See…he knows it…knows what he is." There was another slap, and Alf fought to not cry, as Vernon shook him. "Tell me where your father is, boy…the one who attacked Dudley!"

"Weasley?" Dudley's own memory came flooding back to him…two boys…twins…and the fireplace… and a candy he'd wanted to try. "Oh, my God!" He sank, stunned, into a chair, ignoring his wife's protest to do something.

"Call the authorities, Petunia. Tell them we've got a little freak on the lose…" Vernon said.

With sudden fear overcoming the disparity in weight, Alf wrenched himself from the man's grasp, and ran for his life, across the cul-de-sac and into his house. He slammed the door shut, and wiped tears from his stinging face, as, shaking, he watched the house across the road from the window.

Terrified, he saw Vernon Dursley sling the door open and stalk forward, a _shotgun_ of all things in his hand.

And here he was, alone and without magic to protect him.

It was 5pm. He'd have thought his Dad might have been home by now. But he had to, had to interrupt. He took the medallion from the chain…the one his dad had spelled for him to use to reach him in an emergency.

Well, Vernon Dursley heading to the house with a shot gun was as much of an emergency as he ever could imagine!

"Dad…" He cried out, rubbing the bit of gold furiously. "Dad, I'm sorry…but I need you. Vernon Dursley is here…and he's trying to kill me! DAD!"

Alf sank to the floor, and waited hugging himself tight, rubbing the medallion and thinking of his father as hard as he could.

WWWWW

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Yes, I know it's a horrible cliff hanger. I just wanted to give readers fair warning that there will probably not be another update until Saturday morning. I hope everyone enjoys their Thanksgiving (if you are in the States) or their Thursday-Friday, if they are elsewhere.


	16. Ch 16, JUne 2009, II

George was numb, as he poured glasses of wine into the dirt beneath the bushes. Numb as he packed up uneaten food, and tossed aside wilting flowers. Numb, because the alternative to numb wasn't something he wanted to think about. It was 5pm, and Michelle had not bothered to show up for what was supposed to be the final step before they could become officially engaged.

_She'd said that it was an interesting night last night, with her girlfriends. They must have talked her out of it after all._ Still, beneath the numb, George felt a confusion and an ache…even if she wanted to break it off it was impossible to think that she wouldn't have the courage to show up and tell him in person.

_What in the devil had happened?_

He looked down at the stupid, useless cell phone again, the one he'd tried calling seventeen times, the one he'd checked messages on a hundred times, and cursed muggles and their blasted technology. Fine lot of good it did. In disgust he pushed it deep into his pocket.

_Something must have happened!_

But to hell with it. It was 5pm. Perhaps she would show up with an explanation. Perhaps (horrors) the police would do so…although the cold sweat that thought brought out in him was quickly doused. He and Michelle had exchanged emergency contact cards over a month ago, the fear that if one of them were injured the other would not know was unbearable. Of course, George had other, better methods of early warning, but that would have to have waited until after today. With a heavy, false smile, he removed the spelled coin he was never without, the one that would alert him if Alfred was…

IN DANGER!

The message seemed to flow from the coin right into his blood, the sick fear and nauseating terror that emanated from the bit of gold chilled him. Alf was in trouble…he looked down at the coin, and heard it speak in his mind…danger…shot gun…Vernon Dursley.

Vernon Dursley???? Harry's _uncle?_ How on earth?

No time to question, though. No time to wonder. And no time to mourn his failed love life. Alfred was everything, everything, and he was needed at home _now._

With a quick glance, George made certain that he was alone, and then, focusing all his thoughts beyond his fear and pain on the back yard of his tiny house, he apparated for the first time in months.

WWWWWWW

The house seemed quiet enough. Wand out, George moved in the back door, carefully opening it, all senses alert for any danger. A moan came to him from the living room. "Daaaad…"

George sprang forward, to see Alfred, unharmed but clearly terrified, huddled up in a corner in the living room. Running to him, Alfred lifted his head and the boy's face…his bruised face?...flooded with relief. "Dad…it's Harry's Uncle…the neighbors are Durselys, not Dorseys…he thinks I'm a wizard…he's got a gun!"

George scooped him up immediately. "S'okay, Alf, S'okay…I'm here now…"

The soothing words were interrupted by a fierce pounding on the front door. "_**Freaks! Criminals! Coming into our lives again…Don't think I don't remember what you did to my boy! I'll not let you corrupt my grandson! The nerve of you, showing your face around decent people!"**_

With a blast, the gun went off, and George heard wood splinter. He got down on top of Alf, covering him. "You hurt?" He asked, anxiously.

"No…you?" Alf hiccupped out.

"Fine." George said, grasping him and dragging him further back into the room. Beyond the door he could hear the start of an argument.

"Dad, what the bloody hell are you doing? Where the hell did you get that thing, and how dare you bring it into my house, around my CHILD?" A voice that could only be Mr. D…er…well, George guessed it must be Dudley Dursely…sounded frantic and angry.

"Dudders…you remember what those freaks did to you…twice over…how could you let them anywhere near your boy? No, I say we wipe them out once and for all…if that wizard who was supposed to have taken out your cousin muffed the job so bad, up to me to finish it."

"Dad, you're starkers!" Dudley said. "And put that gun away! The Weatherbys, Weasleys, or whatever their name are, have been good and peaceful neighbors, and are respected in the community. The cops are going to come, and then what? You're the moron trespassing on someone's land with a bloody shot gun!"

George turned to the fireplace, and with his wand quickly shot out a bolt…an s.o.s. signal to Hermione and the folks back home. Within seconds he saw Percy's face in the fireplace. "Perce…Vernon Dursley is one of our new neighbors." George called out. "Whatever else falls out from this, they know our NAMES. If it gets out to Dorcas Bell…"

"I'm on it." Bless Percy and his official refusal to be taken by surprise. "Hang tight, George…do what you have to."

_What I have to._ George pulled Alfred right to him, holding his wand pointed at the door. He paid no heed to the argument taking place, and barely registered that Dudley Dursley, of all people, seemed to be the voice of reason. He knew one thing at the moment, and that was that his son was in danger, and he would not let him be harmed.

Alf was calming, or at least acting calmer, now that George was there. Calm enough to realize the one thing George was not allowing himself to think of. "Dad…where's Miss Fabry?"

George let his mask of numbness fall for one second…just one, before setting his expression as neutral. But that one second was all that Alf needed, and the boy's face fell, confused and bewildered, and he hugged George as hard as he could. George steadied his voice, and spoke with misleading calm. "Doesn't matter, kiddo. Given what's going on at the moment…all for the best, perhaps." His voice sounded hollow even to him, and he knew it wasn't about to fool Alf in the slightest.

But his son would not force him to speak. Shaking himself slightly, actually patting George's back, he said in a low voice, "What happens now, Dad?"

"We've got to go, and go quickly, Alf." George kept an eye on the door. "That man is bandying about our real name so freely I'd bet Dorcas Bell would have heard it in England. Where we go to is going to depend on if Hermione is set to give you that potion, I suppose…and I don't know how the American Ministry will want to handle things…but getting you back to the family is the important thing."

Alf turned his head back to the door. "Dad…I know things are happening fast…but I have to tell you something. I think little Harry is a wizard."

Startled, George listened as Alf explained. It was almost a mercy to have something so blessedly minor to deal with, and took their minds off of bigger problems. Although it was amazing. Harry, George knew, was not going to ever believe this one. If he ever got over the fact that Dudley seemed to have named his son after him!

Police sirens whirred, bringing George back to the more immediate problems. Dudley seemed to have pulled Vernon forcefully back to their own front yard. At that moment, with a pop, Percy came through the floo.

"George!" He spoke, calm but quick. "All okay here?"

"So far." He said, warily. "Any sighting of Katie's relatives."

Percy nodded, reluctantly. "Dorcas is on the move, heading here. Apparently she's wired in to the muggle police broadcasts, and somebody reported that there was an evil wizard named Weasley on Pineapple street…well, she's clearly not dumb. Harry and Ron are pursuing her now."

George rose…the voices across the street were angry but unintelligible, and still clearly out of range of harming them. There were other dangers at the moment. "What are we doing here, then, Perce?"

"Hermione wants me to take Alf back to England, to Shell Cottage. She's with the American ministry making plans…they'd like you to stay on guard here until they can get everything buttoned up."

"No!" Alf yelled…grasping George fiercely. "I'm not leaving you alone, Dad."

George watched Percy carefully. "Fraid you have to, kiddo." Seeing Alf protest, George gently held a finger up to his lips. "Alf, please…this is hard enough…besides, I need to speak to Michelle if I can…and there are one or two other things if time permits…"

Alf's face crumpled in confusion. "But she knows, doesn't she? I don't understand."

A scuffle outside made George rise to attention. "For the love of God, Alf, go with your Uncle Percy!" He yelled, shoving Alf into his brother's arms, and holding the wand out once more. Then, more softly, on seeing Alfred's anguished face, "Please, son…I will be fine."

Alf hugged Percy, and Percy nodded to George just once, before getting into the fireplace, and disappearing into a swirl of green.

George stared back at the door, forcing his mind to stay numb, cold and sharp as ice floes. The sirens started again…and then faded away. And after two agonizing minutes, the doorbell rang. Warily he stepped forward, wand at the ready. The spelled bouquet, right before his eyes, morphed from red back to blue again…supposedly the visitor was friendly. No use in hiding his magic now…tersely he yelled "Aloha Mora…" and waited for the intruder to be revealed. 

WWWWW

"Alfred…really…you must go to bed…everything will be fine."

Alf scowled harder, hugged his knees closer to him, and refused to move from the fireplace, where he'd stationed himself since Uncle Percy had brought him here. Aunt Fleur had started out imploring and now was becoming exasperated, and he didn't care…he wasn't leaving until he knew George was safe.

"Alfred." Uncle Bill's voice was stern, bordering on angry. "I don't think Uncle George will be happy to know you're giving us a hard time, young man."

Alf turned to him. "He's not Uncle George anymore. He's my father, and he's out there and I can't help him, and I don't know what's going on, and I am not going to bed because I won't sleep a wink anyway." He turned away from a beet red Bill and resumed his unblinking stare.

Percy stopped Bill from saying or doing anything else. "Let me take care of him, Bill." Percy quieted his angry oldest brother, who had never taken well to being contradicted. "I'll sit up with him. He's right…you know we wouldn't have been able to just take a nap while Dad was in harms way."

Bill still looked rather contrary. "Fred is his father…" He muttered.

Percy matched Alf's glare in almost exact fierceness. "He never even knew Fred. Don't belittle what he and George have, Bill. Can you for once admit you don't know _everything?_"

Bill balked for a moment, and then seeing the unexpected forcefulness from Percy, he backed down. "Alright, Percy. You handle him. Just keep things quiet…my kids are sleeping." He grumbled, ambling away.

Percy sighed as he watched Bill…who was normally agreeable but occasionally had a streak of bossiness that had never died…turn out the rest of the lights. Now, just heading on for one in the morning, the room was illuminated only by the fire. The shadows of the flames danced on Alf's face, and his concern and pain were evident in every bit of his being.

Percy sat beside the boy, and wrapped an arm around him gently. Much to his surprise, the boy let him. Indeed, after a few moments, Alf had relaxed into his arms, with a little sigh. "Thanks, Uncle Percy."

"It's okay…Bill doesn't mean to be a total git, it just happens sometimes." He eased the boy into a gentle hug. "Your Dad can really take care of himself, you know. And Harry and Ron are not far from him. Dorcas Bell won't stand a chance, if she does happen to get anywhere near him."

"I'm not worried about that." Alf turned and looked up at Percy. "He was supposed to propose to her today, you know." He guessed, correctly, that Percy would understand who he was talking about. "He was with her this afternoon and he was going to tell her everything. I don't know what happened, but when he came to save me, she wasn't there. I think, she walked away." His blue eyes were haunted with pain. "She walked away from him, Uncle Percy. Why would she do that?"

Percy blinked back tears of sympathy for George, and stroked the hair out of his nephew's face tenderly. "THAT's what's bothering you?"

"He can handle everything else." Alf nodded seriously. "But he's been hurt enough. He didn't need this."

Percy hugged the boy tight to him. "George is resilient, Alf. And he's got more family in a few square miles than most people have on entire continents. We'll all take care of him, you know, if what you think happened is correct. Now, rest a while, eh? I promise you I'll wake you up as soon as he gets here. Okay?"

"Kay." Alf murmured, leaning his head against Percy's robes. There was something lumpy in his robe pocket, and Alf winced; with a sheepish smile, Percy reached in and pulled out his Wo-Wo…the one George had spent years developing just for Percy, the one that Alf helped finish. Alf gave his uncle a little smile back; he trusted Percy, because George did, and that was enough.

Leaning against the man, he took a deep breath and watched the flames, until they danced him asleep.

WWWWWWW

Dudley Dursley and George Weasley stared each other down. George still had his wand out; Dudley, however sensible he'd become as an adult, had more than enough past experience with wands to be wary of someone holding one. The two men stared at each other, cautious and careful, until Dudley finally spoke. "I suppose we've both done our fair share of things we regret." He offered.

George, thinking over the incident with the ton-tongue toffee, blushed faintly. "True enough." He admitted. "But doing stupid things as a child doesn't excuse attacking an innocent child over ten years later."

"Agreed." Dudley replied. "My father was quite out of line."

Slowly, George lowered his wand arm, and watched as Dudley exhaled in relief. "I will do anything to protect my son, Mr. Dursley." He said, with even emphasis on each word.

Dudley managed a smile. "Don't call me that…call me Dudley…Mr. Dursley reminds me of my father. Who, you should know, is in the custody of the police right now, and I have no intention of bailing him out, much to my mother's disgust. Can I tell you, the Salem police seem to be rather sensitive about crazy idiots calling them up to complain about wizards…seems they're still not over that spot of bother four hundred years ago."

George balked for a moment, until he realized Dudley had actually told something resembling a joke. He gave half a laugh in relief. "Quite. I can imagine they must have thought he'd hit the alcohol a little hard."

"To say the least." Dudley held out his hand, and George took it; they shook carefully. "Sorry about everything the old man put the boy through. Is he okay?"

"He's safe." George set his shoulders in frustration. "There's some stuff going on, er, Dudley, and he just kind of blew our cover."

"Agh, doesn't that just figure. Finally find a babysitter little Harry likes and you're on the run, eh?" Dudley looked worried. "It isn't that bad wizard still, is it? Moldywarts, or something like that?"

George grinned…Moldywarts…if only Fred could have heard that one! "No…your cousin took care if his moldiness over ten years ago, Dudley. This is at once more simple, and more complicated. Family, you see."

Dudley's face had gone slightly pale. "Harry? George…you are George, right, or was that name faked…" Seeing George incline his head, Dudley went on. "Harry's alright then? My parents never told me, you see. I think they knew, but once we were forced into hiding they would never even mention his name."

"Harry's great, Dudley." George was glad to explain. "Married to my sister…they have three kids."

"Three? Blimey, good on Harry." Dudley looked profoundly relieved. "I'm guessing you must be surprised…Harry probably never said a good word about me…for the simple reason there wasn't a good word to say. But I'm not like that anymore. I realized, eventually, how rotten my parents treated him. I mean, there was this evil wizard after him and they couldn't have cared. Not even though he saved my life. Once I realized that, I looked over everything else in the past, and I didn't much like what I saw."

"I'm sorry Fred and I set that candy on you, Dudley." George said, sincerely. "Harry'd always had such a rough time of it, and we'd kind of appointed ourselves his older brothers. Felt like we had an obligation to take care of him. But it must have scared the hell out of you."

"It did." Dudley rubbed at the back of his neck. "Not enough to scare sense into me, though…took rather longer for that to happen. So where is your brother now? The twin, I mean."

"Dead." George shuddered. "He didn't survive the war against Voldemort. Rest of us did."

"Ah. Sorry." The two stared at each other awkwardly for a moment. George saw Dudley shrug, and realized he was going to walk away.

"Dudley…wait…" George took a deep breath. "I don't know how you're going to feel about this…but Alf thinks your son is a wizard."

Dudley grinned. "He is. I've known since he was three months old and he made his favorite toy zip across the nursery. Don't know if you've noticed…but he's got Harry's eyes. My Aunt Lily's eyes, they are. My mum's eyes, too…if she'd ever open them. I'd always hoped that he'd have a touch of magic about him. It seemed appropriate."

George felt relief. "Your wife know?"

"Not yet…haven't figured out how to tell her."

George felt a spasm of grief come past the numbness. He beat it down. "Look, Dudley…from what Alf told me, the kid's scared. I guess your parents saw him doing some accidental magic…"

Dudley swore.

"Right. Anyway, talk to him. He's at that age where he's going to be doing stuff for no good reason, and it's scary enough when you've got a bunch of people who understand what's happening to explain the situation…for your son, it's going to be terrifying!" George pointed out.

"Thanks." Dudley looked back at the house. "You two will be clearing out, then? Well, when you see Harry…tell him, will you, that I'm happy he's alive. Tell him that I didn't end up the asshole he always thought I'd be."

"I will. You take care, Dudley." George let the door shut, and then turned around to look over his small house. And this time, he let the spasm of pain take him. He let himself sob…only for a minute, but he gave in. And then he headed over to his manuscript, to the one Michelle always wanted to read. Sitting down at his table, he wrote a long post-script on the last page, wiping his tears as he did so. Then he packaged it up in a brown envelope, taped a note on the cover, and with a flick of his wand, he sent it out to her mailbox.

Hermione and the American minister appeared moments later. "You're clear, George. You can head back to England. Harry and Ron have Dorcas Bell in custody, so to speak, and we'll take care of your possessions here. Do you want the neighbor's obliviated?" Hermione asked, gently.

"NO!" George exploded. The possibility of Michelle never even remembering him was worse than her abandoning him. "Jimmy's son said he thought we were in something called witness protection…does that work?" He tried feebly.

"It does." The minister smiled at him. "In fact, it's exactly what we're putting about. We've been encouraging those rumors all along. People won't be surprised that you've decamped suddenly."

_Some will._

With a shrug, George nodded. "Whatever you need then, Can I go to my son? If I know Alf he's giving Bill hell and refusing to go anywhere near a bed until he sees me."

"Go, George. We'll finish up here." Hermione looked him over curiously. "Unless there's someone you want to talk to before you leave?"

"There's nobody." He replied, shortly. Hermione was smart enough to let it drop.

He stepped into the floo, refusing to let the sweet memories of happy days in the little house flood him. That was never home; it had been misleading. He would be going home now, though it was Bill's home. He was going back to where things made sense.

The world turned green and spun out of control, and within seconds he found himself stumbling out of Bill's fireplace in Shell Cottage.

He nearly fell over Percy, who was sleeping by the fireplace, and holding his son. _Good old Perce._ He thought, knowing instinctively it must have been his middle brother who had prevented Alf from being forcibly marched of to bed. He got down on one knee, and touched his brother's shoulder. "Hey…Perce…" George whispered. "I'm here."

Percy blinked awake, and reached around for his glasses. Within his arms, Alf stirred restlessly, then blinked awake. Seeing George, he gave a little gasp, and threw his arms around his neck. "You're okay…you're okay!" He mumbled, repeating himself in his exhaustion.

"I'm not sure okay is the right word, Alf, but we'll be fine, the two of us, right?" He replied, hugging the boy deeply. "Everything is okay back on Pineapple Street, and Dorcas Bell has been forestalled. Vernon Dursley is in jail, and Dudley turned out not to be half bad. Everything will be fine."

Alf looked up at him. He knew what name George hadn't mentioned. George didn't need to. Even as Alf studied him, he knew his son was sensing his hurt, his wound, much as Fred knew about his ear before he'd even seen him. Without saying anything Alf reached up and kissed his cheek, and wrapped his arms even more tightly about him. "Love you, Dad." He murmured sleepily."

Bill spoke, having come downstairs on being alerted to the floo's usage. "When did he start calling you Dad?" Bill asked, with a faint hint of disapproval.

George nearly swore. He should have expected there would be one problem with the family, and he should have expected it to be Bill. "I am his father, Bill. Percy told me the official adoption cleared a month ago. I don't expect you to understand, but you don't need to." He snapped. Percy grasped his shoulder gently, and George closed his eyes. "Bill…I don't mean to be short with you…but it's been one hell of a lousy day. I just need some sleep…is that okay?"

Bill nodded a little sheepishly, and motioned towards the upstairs room where George and Alf had been ensconced before.

WWWWWWWW

Michelle Fabry sat at her kitchen counter, drinking coffee in a numb silence on a rainy Sunday morning. Her world had managed to fall in within twenty four hours, and she didn't think she'd ever get it back.

Rufus was gone. Rufus, the big brute of a mutt that she'd saved from the ASPCA after Anthony had died, hadn't come through the emergency operation to save his life. The coward who'd hit him never did step forward. And she missed him, missed the noise and laughter and silliness he'd brought back into her life, during a time when she'd never thought she'd laugh again.

And it would seem the one man who might have been able to keep that laughter going had abandoned her as well.

She'd returned late last night, and immediately and angrily gone to the Weatherby household and pounded on the door. Damn it, she wanted answers; she especially wanted to be told why in the hell he hadn't responded to any of her desperate pleas for help via their cell phones. It had been the neighbor…Dorsey…Dursley…whatever…that had told her, rather apologetically, that George had been forced to run for it. That his own father had blown whatever cover they lived under, and they'd been rushed away.

Hell, who would have guessed little Tony Castelli had been so right all along?

Theoretically she thought George might try to find a way to contact her. But she rather doubted it. He wouldn't have forgotten her cell phone number, and he could call her at any time if he really wanted to. Somehow, she didn't think he would. If he had loved her at all, he'd have responded to the call that Rufus was dead, at least. He'd have left her something. She walked over to the front window and looked miserably out on to the street.

And blinked. The mailbox was open, and appeared to be overstuffed. That was odd.

She sprinted outside and grasped a package from the plastic box; turning she ran back through the rain to the house, closing the door behind her. It was a hefty brown envelope, and there was a smaller envelope taped to the top. She opened that up at once, and read the note it contained.

"_Michelle…_

_I don't know why you didn't show up today. I can't imagine what would have kept you away. If you'd wanted to break it off, there were a thousand other ways you might have done it than this. But I can't change what's been done. For now, for Alf's sake, I need to leave, and I am leaving you in the dark. There's a part of me that wants to just walk away and not look back…but I am hoping that perhaps there has been some misunderstanding here. So please, Michelle, read the manuscript I've enclosed. It's never going to be published, for I am no author, but it might make you understand me better. I do love you…I know I do, because I hadn't realized what kind of pain love caused…George."_

Michelle snorted in anger. _Can't imagine what would have kept you away._ Was he KIDDING? Read his manuscript? Like she cared anymore. She threw the package away across the room, into the pile of recycling. Then she paused.

No, she didn't want to read it…she didn't think she'd ever want to read it…but she didn't want to throw it away either. Wiping tears from her face, she walked over to the package, and set it in her bookcase. Maybe someday she'd be ready to throw it away, but not today.

No, not today.


	17. Ch 17, June 2009, III

George woke up with Alf tucked under shoulder, the boy's arm draped protectively over his father. He couldn't help but smile. He knew Alf had been worried about him last night, and he suspected it really hadn't been much to do with Dorcas Bell or even a crazed Vernon Dursley. George's head and heart still hurt from what had happened, or rather hadn't happened, between he and Michelle yesterday. But he hoped, if she read that manuscript, that she would get in touch with him. He'd left instructions on how… and, well, if she could wrap her head around the fact that the story he'd told was fact, not fiction, then they'd have a good shot. If not, well then, he supposed it was never much meant to be.

"You awake?" His son spoke, sleepily.

"Yeah…" George sighed, and stretched, getting up from the bed stiffly, and holding his hand out for Alf. Neither of them had changed from last evening, and both of them were looking it.

"You want first dibs on the shower?" Alf asked through a yawn.

"Nah…I want coffee most immediately. You go ahead." He ruffled his hair.

Alf was rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "Are you okay, Dad?"

Funny, Alf had asked the same question last night. "Maybe." He changed his opinion with the dawn of the new day. "I left her a way to get in touch with me, Alf. If she does…then yeah, I'm fine. If not, then I'll survive, eventually."

"It still sucks." He replied, watching George carefully.

_It does._ Bug George forced a smile. "Let's focus right now on getting your magic back, eh? That, at least, is somewhat under our control." Alf nodded and turned towards the bathroom, and George headed downstairs.

Bill was there, reading the Prophet, and his eldest brother passed a mug of coffee across the table for him. "Hermione and Draco are on their way over, to give Alf that potion." Bill said, quietly.

"Great, it will be good to have things stable." George began preparing his morning brew, pretending not to notice that Bill was watching him very carefully. "Percy go home?" He asked, trying to keep his eldest brother from starting a fight.

"Yeah." Bill folded the paper. "About our conversation last night, George…and Alf calling you Dad…"

George put the mug down, and put both hands on the table, and leaned forward. "I _**am**_ his father, Bill. I may not have contributed biologically to his creation, but if there's one thing I've learned over the past year it's that fatherhood is a lot more than the donation of sperm. If Fred was alive, there would be no doubt that he'd be a terrific father; he isn't and Alf has been left to my care. He deserves a Dad, and that's what I am to him; he shouldn't be penalized because of circumstances he had no say in. And if you can't handle that, then just let me know, and I'll gather up _my son_ and go somewhere that we are welcome, as the family that we are." His words were quiet, but his eyes were blazing.

Bill leaned backward. "Whoa, George. I was going to apologize for being a total butt-head last night…no need to tell me what Fleur bitched at me about for an hour this morning before she went out. Geez!" Bill rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "What's got in to you?"

George closed his eyes. "Look, Bill, the woman I thought I was going to marry seems to have decided she didn't want me, my son was attacked by a muggle fruitcake, I just picked up and moved my life for the second time in less than twelve months, and I'm facing having to watch my son take a dose of an experimental potion that has a very outside chance of killing him. I reserve the right to be a little off."

"Right. Gotcha." Bill passed over a plate of pastries, and shrugged, turning his head towards the door. "Hermione and Draco." Bill watched him carefully. "The sooner we get Alf's magic back, George, the safer everyone is…you know that."

"I know." George sighed. The way his life and his luck were going lately, he just didn't have a good feeling about anything.

WWWWWWW

Michelle lay listlessly in the hammock in Jimmy Castelli's back yard. She had a large margarita in one hand and the other flung across her head. Jimmy sat not far from her, and listened as she finished up her explanation of the day yesterday.

"So Tony was right, then…" Jimmy whistled. "I knew something was up with them…just never thought that it would happen this quickly."

"Me either." Michelle murmured. "And I wish he hadn't opted to rip my heart out in the process."

"Would it make you feel better or worse that I urged George to not stick to that stupid time-table for your show and tell?" Jimmy said.

"You know about that, eh?" She shrugged. "It makes me feel neither…my friend Karen urged me to talk to him the minute I realized I really loved him. I don't know why we felt like he had to stick to that stupid date, except that the end of the school year would make everything less awkward if it had gone wrong."

"So…you never told him…" Jimmy paused. "Um, about the fact that…you're a witch?"

Michelle sat up abruptly, which wasn't a healthy idea in a hammock. It flipped her over and dumped her and her drink on to the ground. "Wh-what did you just say, Jimmy?"

Jimmy was a shade of red not often seen on brunettes. "I, um, well, I _know_ Michelle. I mean, Tony called me the night you two had the fight, drunk off his ass…and hey, if he was blowing smoke out of his ass, now would be a nice time to tell me…but I don't think he was. So I'm just saying…I know, Michelle, and I'm okay with it." He reached down to help her up.

"You…know" She stared at his offered hand, and then took it, rising, and setting into a more stable lawn chair across from him. "All this time…you never said anything."

"Well, it's kind of a bizarre thing to bring up." Jimmy began to calm down. "Tony called that night, ranting and raving…and he must have repeated pretty verbatim what you told him…said you'd actually levitated an entire tray of snacks?"

"I thought it was cute and harmless…why would the easy delivery of nachos and beer scare him?" She grimaced. "He almost jumped over the couch." Her eyes slid over to Jimmy. "And you…weren't freaked out?"

"Startled, perhaps. But strange things seemed to happen when we'd all go out together…tickets that shouldn't have been available, were…tables that shouldn't have been ready, were…and then there was that night we nearly got into an accident on the highway, during that ice storm…we were certain sure going to hit that tree…and somehow we didn't." Jimmy coughed. "So I knew if you were a witch it was…well, a good thing…like Glinda in the Wizard of Oz."

She groaned. "Do not, Jimmy, bring that movie up…you want to set someone in the magical community's blood on fire, throw that out there. Stupid Frank L. Baum…squib, you know…tried to expose us all."

"Squib?" He asked, brow furrowed.

"Never mind." She sighed. "Well, I'm glad your okay with it, Jimmy…I thought George would be too, but I never even got the chance to tell him."

"I know. I thought he'd be okay too. He's a lot more open minded than Tony ever was, God rest his soul." Jimmy leaned back. "So…what are you doing here, Michelle?"

"At the moment, hoping you'll offer me another margarita." She quipped.

"Not _here_. Here. Living away from your people…I'm not even sure if that's the right term, but…you ought to be able to be what you are." Jimmy watched her. "Don't you miss it? Shit, if I were able to do what you can, I'd want to be doing magical things all day long."

She shrugged. "I gave everything up for Tony…I think a part of me always knew he wouldn't understand. And then when he didn't, I'd cut myself off from all of that for so long. I think I was afraid to go back."

Jimmy had gotten up and refilled her glass from a pitcher on the picnic table. "I hate that I'm saying this; it already sucks that I lost George. But I think you should consider it. Nothing good comes from burying such a huge part of yourself. You're a great teacher; couldn't you teach in your world?"

Michelle accepted the margarita. "I could, I suppose…not sure where I'd want to do that. I hated the school I went to here…lots of Boston blue bloods who clamed relation to the original Salem witches." Jimmy choked on his own drink, and she smiled at him. "Sorry, buddy. A word of advice…anything strange and untrue you always wondered about, probably actually is true, in some way. And connected to _my people._" She teased.

"Right." He wiped his mouth with a wry smile. "Well, anyway, whatever you do, I support you in it. Just, keep in touch, okay? Little Tony's already down because Alf's gone. I don't want him to totally lose you too. Promise."

"Promise." She clinked glasses, and sighed, half wishing that Anthony had been as sensible as Jimmy, and at the same time knowing, deep inside, that she never quite loved Anthony as she loved George.

A saying of her mother's came back to her. _If it's meant to be, it will be, and all the bad luck in the world cannot stop it._

Maybe she'd see George again. Maybe he'd come looking for her. Maybe, when it stopped hurting so much, she'd read that damned book of his. But right now, there were too many maybes.

And not enough tequila.

WWWWWWW

Everyone was gathered around Alf's bed back in the flat above the shop in Diagon Alley. Well, everyone but Ron, and Charlie, who were on guard downstairs. But Hermione and Draco had felt that being in Diagon Alley and in the proximity of supplies in an emergency was better than the safer isolation of Shell Cottage.

Alf held a smoking potion in his hand. He looked remarkably calm; George's skin had taken on the hue of skim milk. He sat as close by Alf's bed as he could get, elbows on his knees and chin resting on his hands, listening to Draco and watching his son.

"This is what should happen…Alf is going to first fall into a light sleep, nothing scary at all. Then he's going to develop a fever…based on how the mice reacted, I'd say he's going to be in a deep fever, about 101 degrees, for two days."

"Sounds like what I remember from when they gave me the potion the first time." Alf interjected.

"Pretty much." Draco nodded. "The fever is your magic reigniting, so to speak, as the last time it was the feeling of your magic burning away. Like I said, two days should do it. Once you wake up, you should be a perfectly normal eleven year old wizard."

George huffed, running his hands through his hair. He looked at Draco seriously. "Are you sure? I don't mean to insult you, or Hermione…but _are you sure_?"

Draco raised his chin slightly. "George, all I can tell you is that I wouldn't hesitate to give this potion to my own son, if he needed it. Does that answer your question?"

It did, and George nodded. He knew how much Draco loved his son, it had been all over his face that day in Diagon Alley when Alf had saved little Scorpius' life. If he was that sure…well, then…

"Alright." Draco nodded. "Down the hatch then, Alf."

Alf squeezed George's hand, reassuring his father, and then drank down the potion quickly.

Together, the family waited.

WWWWWW

Hours passed. Then a day. George barely left Alf's side, and wouldn't have done it at all except that Bill insisted he smelled. So far, everything was exactly as expected.

Then Alf's fever spiked.

George leaned forward, fear coursing through him at the change. Previously the boy had been mildly warm, sweating and flushed. Now, he tossed in his bed, the sweat more furious and his cheeks actually red. Beyond his flushed cheeks, everything was a pale grey pallor, even the boy's lips. George watched, helplessly, as Hermione and Draco rushed in; Draco swore and Hermione cried. The fever was high…nearly 103…too high…and they could not give him magical potions. Cold compresses and frequent freshening spells, yes, but nothing else.

And George sat, everything inside of him freezing, knowing, sensing, that this was it; that he was losing Alf too. He must have done something heinous in a past life (though wizards didn't really believe in reincarnation) to deserve this, this cycle of losing those he loved most. It was like King Midas, in a sick way, only everything he touched died.

_Don't leave me, Alf. Please, Don't leave me!_ Inside his mind the mantra was frantic and vivid; outside, George appeared nearly catatonic. Arthur came to him, and rubbed his shoulders, but he didn't move; Molly came to his side and kissed him, and he didn't blink. He knew his family was there, but his life was now bound to the child beside him, and the child was dying, taking him along for the ride. What would be left of George Weasley without Alfred wasn't going to be worth thinking about.

Ron came to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't give up, George…please don't give up." Ron urged, fear in his voice. "You've survived so much, don't give up now."

But George was beyond hearing anything anymore, except the labored breathing of his son. And each breath longer between than the one before.

WWWWWW

Fred Weasley paced, frantic, from the monitor before him and across the floor of "Kings Cross Station." This wasn't happening, couldn't be happening. George couldn't take it, shouldn't have to take it. No, it was all wrong. His boy couldn't die…there was so much that Alf had to do, so much the boy should live for. "He can't die!" Fred yelled.

Cedric Diggory was with him, a deep sadness over his face. "We can all die. You and I did, Fred. I wish this wasn't happening…but…"

"No!" Fred turned on him. "I won't hear it Cedric, I won't! My son isn't dying, and that's all there is to it!"

A wail came up from the monitor; Alf had gone still, and George's reaction nearly tore Fred's heart in two. In a rage, Fred grabbed a chair, and smashed the monitor to bits.

The entire room stilled, and filled with a fog. Fred turned around.

His son was walking towards him.

WWWWWWWW

Michelle looked at the resignation letter she'd penned to the Salem school district. All in order there. And she looked in her hand at the ad placed in the Salem Mirage, the American wizarding paper. The ad was for a teacher, one in muggle studies. Well, hell, she could do that. The application had already been sent off.

It was a long way to go, and Jimmy would miss her. But she recognized that he was right. Part of what had doomed her and George was the fact that they were from different worlds…without those secrets to tell, who knows what might have been? No, she needed to be a witch again, to live the life she was born to.

Even if it required moving to another country to do it.

WWWWWWW

Alf blinked, and came over to him. "Dad?" He asked, looking at him strangely. And then realization came to him. "Oh…_Dad._" He stood still, registering Fred, the father he'd never known, who stood before him with tears streaming down his face, hand over his mouth. He particularly noted both ears. "So…I'm dead then?" He asked, quietly.

"Nooooo." Fred moaned, and then rushed forward. He embraced his son, committed the feel and the smell of him to memory…kissed the boy on his own ability for the first time in his life. Alf, in turn, grasped him, reveling in the connection and in the love. But Fred came up with a start. "No, Alf, no, no…" Containing a sob, he held the child out just a bit from him. "You can't be here, you can't…I love you…I love being able to hold you…but you can't be here yet. Can you feel it, feel a line back to the other side…can you still connect to George?"

Alf frowned lightly, thinking, and then nodded. "There's a pull there, Dad. It's calling me back. But it's growing fainter."

"Go, Alf...please…I love you and some day we'll be together…but George needs you; he can't go on without you and I can't live with that. Go, Alf, go back to George. Please, son…do your best to make it back to him." Fred wiped tears from his eyes with his sleeve.

Alf gave him a brave smile, and nodded, turning away to the foggy nothingness. Just once he turned back. "I'll make you proud of me, Dad."

"I already am." Fred gave him a watery grin, and watched his son fade away, a new hole in his heart, but one that was soon filled with hope, for his brother and his family.

"Gryffindor bravery." Cedric said, but with no trace of mockery. "You were sorted well."

Fred looked up; the monitor had returned, whole, and playing the scene of sobbing from the shop in Diagon Alley, and he waited, hoping Alf would make it there. It was where Alf belonged.

WWWWWW

Alf coughed suddenly, a feeling of wetness flowing over him. He sat up suddenly and looked about. "I'm cold." He said.

George raised his head, stunned…everyone just stared for a moment. Then George rushed forward, grabbed his son and cried out loud. "I thought I lost you…I thought I lost you, Alf…" He hugged his shivering boy tightly.

Draco's color began to return, as much as he ever had. "The fever appears to have broken." He said, relief in every fiber. The entire family seemed to feel a dark cloud lift from the world.

Until a voice called out. "Unhand that squib claiming to have my blood."

The room whirled to see Dorcas Bell, a tall, sparse, severe witch, standing over them. Her wand was out. "I'll not have our name besmirched by such a claim. Bad enough that my daughter befouled herself with a blood traitor…to leave behind this… this… abortion …is something not to be lived with."

With her wand full on Alf and George, none dared move, and the tension was terrible. If she struck them, they would soon strike her down, but none wished to see Alf or George harmed to begin with.

Dorcas snarled. "Thought you could get away from me…and you nearly did. But no magical court will convict me for removing a squib from the family…"

"He's a squib because you made him one." George growled. "And if I raise him, with our family name, how could it possibly be anything to you?"

Dorcas tossed her head. "It's an abomination. He's a freak, you are an embarrassment to wizards, and my daughter was a whore…"

Dorcas had her focus on George, which is why the curse hit her so unexpectedly and with a bang. Her wand fell to the ground, as tiny bats began to pour from her nose. The perfect bat bogey curse. Ron and Harry quickly subdued her.

"Way to go, Ginny." George quavered out, able to breathe again. Ginny, wandless and to the side, looked confused.

"Aunt Ginny didn't do it." Everyone looked to Alf, who had managed to get George's wand from his pocked without Dorcas noticing. "I did. I know I'm not supposed to. Sorry." He said, in a tone clearly not sorry at all.

Laughter burst forth from the room, and George rocked his son back and forth. "You're forgiven…this time." He gasped. "Nice shot."

"I guess the potion worked." Ron said, with his usual penchant for stating the obvious.

George shook his head. "Impossible, the lot of you…get that trash out of my store, by the way…" He nodded to Dorcas, now stupefied. "I love you all…but please…I need a minute alone with my son…"

Arthur shoed everyone out. Alf looked up at him gently. "I told you I wouldn't leave, didn't I?" He said, rather weakly.

"That's not a promise anyone can keep, Alf." George smoothed his hair back. "But I am glad that you were able to this time." He leaned back, and realized just how tired he was. "We'll be okay…I just need to rest."

"Darn straight you do." Alf teased. "I want a broom, and I want you to teach me how to ride it!"

George laughed. "Not today, kiddo. But soon…"

An owl floated outside the window, and George wearily went over to it. Taking the letter, he chuckled.

"Prescient as always." He joked.

It was Alf's letter of acceptance to Hogwarts.

WWWWWWWW

Whew! I am heading out of town and I knew I'd have an angry posse after me if I didn't wrap this up today. I know a lot of folks were expecting Michelle and George to end up together last chapter, but I have plans within plans…besides…when has anything ever been easy for George? But I promise there is more to come, perhaps in about two weeks.

Thanks to everyone for reading!


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